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For the Murray Mallee and Regions… vol 2..# 2.
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We know that mysterious spirits do twist and spin,
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With eddys and currents, past river cliff and bend,
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To lazily tease a dreamer’s dreams,
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From away upstream, to the river’s end.
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A selection of poems and stories by local writers.
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Our motto: “Art not just for art, but for culture’s sake”.
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Selected and edited by Helen Tuxford and Joe Carli.
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I invite you to immerse yourselves in a
revitalised arts movement we are attempting to create with this humble
review. It can be called ; “The Romantic Movement Reborn”..yes, reborn
into the twenty- first century, reborn into a cynical and materialist
age where creative arts and crafts are only considered for their
“bottom-line value”, ie; what is it worth and is there a market for it?
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Art has a social obligation…a social
objective , but it has been perverted by a market mechanism. There is a
serious distortion of our perceptions of achievement within the realms
of creativity once we accept the lie of “art for art’s sake” , this is a
postmodern prescription and debasement of a noble act. We have given
over both riches and recognition to those who ill deserve and abuse both
and we receive (unlike our caveman ancestor with their rock-art
paintings) little or no representations of our collective struggles in
return.
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“art” does not exist in itself, but
rather as an adjunct to physical experience and cultural existence!… it
is not a separate construction of the imagination. No longer do we
aspire to the heroic deed or moment as depicted in The Odyssey or The
Aenied, or even in the later mythologies of modern people just going
about their everyday lives, easier to descend to the lowest common
denominator of cruel brutality. Elitism that has captured our culture in
“art” has created a dearth of imagination in the population, a denial
of the humanist / emotional centre needed in all creativity.
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With this humble publication, we wish
to revitalise that emotional centre most lacking in the bigger world of
“corporate art” or as it is called; “The Art Industry”. The editors want
to encourage the promotion of an older age of arts and craft along with
creative writing that best examples and fulfills that knowing hunger
for a more emotional involvement, a more romantic viewing of the world
around us and our culture in the community.
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Stories: 1) Snips and snails and puppy dog tales….Joe Carli.
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2) The Third Alternative…………………Helen Tuxford.
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3) A pasta meal of fusilli ai ferri……….Erik Heldzingen
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Intermission of poems and pics……………………Helen Tuxford, Kateri Duke, Joe Carli and Clarice Proudthorpe.
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Topical Articles and such: …………………………Pietr Howse, Joe Carli.
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. . . Snips and Snails and puppy dog tails. . .
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The adventures of young boys growing up . . .
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Whistling in the dark: Frank Duveneck.
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To get to one of our favourite
play-spots, that is the Phantom’s Cave, you had to crawl through and
under a large swale of the huge foliage of wild artichokes that covered
much of the gully owned by Mr Ivan Coleman. It didn’t pay to fall foul
of Ivan Coleman, as he was a garrulous old man who seemed to be unable
to be complimented or pleased…I know this because one day I sidled up
next to him just before descending to join the other kids at the hidden,
darkened entrance to The Phantom’s Cave at the bottom of the gully. He
was standing quietly and pensively staring out over the mass of
overgrown wild artichoke thistles that covered most of his back
property. He was silent as I approached and it took a little while
before he spoke in a kind of sad, fatalistic voice.
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“You know, I worked my backside off
digging holes in this hard, bloody shaley ground to plant dozens of
trees so they would grow thick and tall in this gully..I planted them, I
watered them, I pulled weeds out around them..and now look at
it…nothing…not one survived..nothing but wild artichoke from stem to
stern…” and he just stood there in deep reflection. Myself and the other
kids saw those artichokes as so wonderful..we would create hidden
passages under their leaves as entrance or escape routes to confuse our
eternal foes; The O’Niels, who lived on the corner of Newland Ave. and
Frank street, just over the road from the Misses Bones..The O’Niels were
keen to capture our Phantom Cave and claim it as their own, hence the
hidden tunnels under the wild artichoke fronds, so I didn’t share nor
have an inkling of the hatred Ivan Coleman had for the artichokes…until I
innocently and cheeringly blurted out in their defence a compliment I
heard my mother say to Mrs Potts about her ability to grow such a lush
garden..”Oh, but Mr. Coleman the artichokes are just so thick and
healthy..I think you must have a real green thumb!”
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The Phantom’s Cave was in reality a
culvert that ran under the old railway embankment that was there before
the local council filled in the gullies with their mega hard-rubbish
dumps.It existed as a branch of our imagination from reading the old
“Phantom” comics of the era. The flat, concrete masonry that framed the
entrance of the culvert, itself around ten feet in height and width,
with a flat floor, we emblazoned with what we thought were scary images
to frighten away any uninvited intruders to our domain.
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There were large skull-like images
scraped of black coal dust from discarded lumps of coal fuel from the
steam locomotives that passed overhead. These images were crude,
childish drawings of a skull, looking more like a two-dimensional
outline of a lightbulb, with darkened splodges for eye sockets and
instead of a pin-socket as in a regular light-bulb, there were a series
of vertical strokes of black coal dust that represented skull teeth.
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We kids would congregate at that
entrance and using the long, straight stalks of the flowering stems of
the wild artichokes, mould from the natural clay in the side of the
gully, spearheads which we used to frighten away any of the gang of the
O’Niels mob.
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Any kid who wanted to join “The
Phantom Club” had to go through “initiation”. This involved swearing
allegiance to a set of principles involving loyalty to the point of
death, the principles of “Phantom Lore”…a dogma that was never truly
revealed, it being a most fluid thing changing with the circumstances
and mood of the older kids in the group. It also involved the inductee
being given a flat slab of shale picked off the ground all around the
gully, with his first name initial written in coal upon it and commanded
to walk to the darkened end of the “Phantom Cave” and place the piece
of shale upon a ledge there without crying out running or flinching in
fear from this ordeal. While the tremulous child was walking slowly
toward what many thought was their doom in the dark, many skulls and
other rough sketches illustrated tunnel, the other kids at the entrance
would beat sticks upon a piece of corrugated iron and scream harrowing
yelps, moans and cries to try to frighten the inductee to abandon his
mission, throw the piece of shale into the unknown blackness of the
culvert and flee back to the light. Once the initiated placed their
marked piece of stone on the ledge at the back of the culvert, they
could…and for the love of life SHOULD..flee as fast as their little legs
could carry them back to their friends. Upon success of their
initiation, a coal-dust streak was smeared upon each of their facial
cheeks and they were whoopingly welcomed into the circle of the “
Phantom Fellowship”.
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This method of initiating new members
continued for one whole summer, until a local girl..Cyglinda..suddenly
turned up uninvited after crawling down one of the many hidden tunnels
under the wild artichoke fronds. Cyglinda was a stout, plump girl with
one of the loudest voices heard on a girl.
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“Watcha doin’?” she asked, her sudden and uninvited appearance making the little clan of boys jump in fright.
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“You’re not allowed to be here!” the oldest boy, Trevor Klink replied.
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“Why not? It’s not your property” Cyglinda sassily replied. “And what are you yelling for?”
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This intrusion just as a new member
was being sent down the culvert for initiation was inconvenient, so
after a quick instruction to the intruding girl, they continued yelping
and moaning and banging the sheet of corrugated iron.
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Cyglinda thought it fun, so she
decided to join in..and standing with her feet firmly planted on the
flat cement entrance of the culvert, hands cupped either side of her
mouth did so with the most harrowing howl of female falsetto,
banshee-like fearsome screech that made even those boys at the entrance
shrink away in fright and the inductee flung away his initialled stone
and and with a cry of terror, fled quickly back to the others at the
entrance, thereby technically failing the indentureship.
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We say; “technically”, because the boy
in question filed a protest that among all the fearsome threats and
distractions he was compelled to face, no-one warned him that a girl was
going to be one of the threats. This incontestable fact was considered
and the protest upheld on the grounds of excessive cruelty..Cyglinda was
chased away with clay-dobbed spears and threats, but not before yelling
; “Your play stuff is dumb and stupid!”.. and the boy was once again
allowed to contest his initiation.
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But such a practice soon faded after
the Cyglinda incident and the whole initiation ruse fell away at the end
of that Summer…there was consensus among the boys that keeping any
girls from joining their games was best to maintain their “manly”
independence.
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Little did we know that those days of
carefree boyish adventures were slated, numbered and doomed to suffer
that inevitable, unstoppable fate of all childhood imaginations…: that
of growing up.
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( “No Grapes”..;From, Playground.com..a free AI image generator)
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The existence of The Phantom Cave was
made possible when the local council closed off the other side of the
culvert under the high embankment and placed a series of concrete pipes
there leading down to the river to take the run-off winter water that
flowed down the creek, and on top of these pipes, they commenced to
infill the gully with a mega hard-rubbish and domestic waste dump.
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This dump became a mecca for the local
boys to rummage through the hard rubbish on the weekends..through the
week, there were workers and trucks and a bulldozer working the site so
they couldn’t congregate there to fossick..so imagine their horror when
after six months of such bliss, in the space of a week, there appeared a
makeshift cyclone fence right around the dump, replete with a sign on
the gate stating : “NO SCAVENGING!”..and ; “TRESPASSES PROSECUTED!” this
was a disaster for the kids and they could be seen leaning against the
wire, their fingers clasping the mesh and looking like so many refugees
in rags.
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But if the kids felt bad, spare a
thought for the tractor driver..for there were no air-conditioned cabins
in those days..no cabin at all!..and the driver would sit there pulling
the levers of the machine as it pushed the garbage from the dump-trucks
into the hollows..all he had to protect himself from the heat, dust,
flies, noise and stench was a set of ear-muffs, big eye-goggles of the
type worn by motor-cyclists and a scarf around his lower face..come
winter or summer. Crows and other scavenger birds could be seen hovering
around him and his machine, like gross, enlarged flies also seeking
those morsels to snatch from the miasma of domestic detritus.
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It was on one of these summer days of
excessive heat, when Alistair, standing hopefully at the fence with
several other boys, suddenly felt an affinity for that bulldozer
driver..and excusing himself from the gang, he made his way quickly
home, picked the biggest, fattest, ripe bunch of muscatel grapes from
his home vines and made his way back to the dump fence. These grapes he
held up as high as his small arms could lift them, for it was a big
bunch while he was small and they were heavy. He held the bunch up so
the bulldozer driver could see them.
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This did not take long, as the driver
was indeed dry, thirsty and fed up with the stench…He spotted the little
boy at the gate just holding the most attractive bunch of grapes he
believed he had ever seen..Alistair just held the grapes up a little
higher..The driver stopped the machine and slumped back in the seat, he
pushed the goggles up to his hairline and flung the face-scarf off with a
tiresome gesture, with his foot resting on the dashboard of the
machine, his eyes drawn between the soft, juicy blushing glow of those
grapes and the big eyes of the little boy..a confederacy of camaraderie
immediately formed between them..as man to boy, for there is a
continuity of “knowing” between us men..the driver admired this kid’s
initiative and he smiled to him.
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Swinging his legs over the controls of
the tractor, he slid off the seat, stepped onto the caterpillar tracks
and made his way to the gate where Alistair held the grapes. Without a
word, but with a nod and wink of acknowledgment, the driver opened the
gate, letting only Alistair in. He took the bunch of grapes from
Alistair’s arms, broke it in half, one half of which he placed on the
seat of his ute, the other he held and knelt on one knee in front of the
boy and softly said..: “When I finish…you finish…ok?” and he let
Alistair loose on the hard rubbish dump while he leant against the
bulldozer track and delightfully dropped one grape at a time into his
mouth.
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Oh how the other boys still outside
the wire wailed and lamented…howled and wept at Alistair’s fortune..then
started crying out to him to “please get me this!…see if you can find
that!” and other desperate cajoling..
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When the driver finished the last
grape, he gave a loud whistle to Alistair, who gathered up his box of
swag and made for the opened gate..At the gate, the driver stood with a
big smile on his face as he let the boy through..Alistair paused on
exiting, looked to the driver, thanked him and then asked..; “Do you
like nectarines?”…the driver thought for a minute then answered, not
with words, but with lip movement only..:”Love ‘em!”…and that was all
Alistair needed to hear.
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JEAN–BAPTISTE–MARIE PIERRE : c. 1745.
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Many of the phrases and expressions
which he used were unfamiliar to me, so that I found it difficult, on
occasion, to grasp the exact meaning of that which he described. And
having no experience and but little knowledge of the worlds that he had
known, I can only recount, in my own words, all that he told me of the
events which shaped his life.
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He had been born in Iada, where he had
spent his youth and grown to manhood. Though the livelihood in which he
was engaged was demanding, it was work that was agreeable to him, and
he had been blessed, I thought, to have been a native of such a pleasant
and ordered land.
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I gathered that there had been a
woman, whom he loved dearly, but that she had shamed them by her
infidelity with another man. Angry and betrayed, yet heart bound still,
he could not bring himself to break with her completely, and in this
unhappy state existed for some time. Finally, in a moment of decision
that set the course of his fate, he cut the last tie that fettered him,
and left the place of his birth.
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‘We were destroying each other,” he
said. ‘It is cruel, the wounds that a man and a woman can inflict upon
one once loved, when that love turns sour, and erodes all trust.’
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These were passionate words, yet he
spoke as one who, although he recalls clearly the event itself, has long
since discarded the emotions attached to the memory.
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After a period of wandering in many
lands – and I am not certain if that period was of long or of short
duration – he journeyed to Gartel Frere, to the middlemost province of
that world. And because he had both military training and experience in
the crewing of the vessels that traverse the distances between the known
terrestrial spheres, joined the Dagr, the defence system which guarded
Gartel Frere’s boundaries.
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‘Routine work,’ he called it;
protecting the transports which ferried crews and supplies to the mining
settlements on Aethra, for Gartel Frere was deficient in many of the
ores needed to maintain its civilisation.
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By diligence and hard work – perhaps
too, by his own personal skills – he rose quietly and steadily through
the hierarchy of the Dagr, until he had command – his first command -of
his own Realm Guard, of which I believe there are several classes, from
the great astral combat ships, the symbol of Gartel Frere’s power, to
the small attack craft which are so important to its autonomy.
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Whether or not he gained fulfilment or
like benefits from his chosen path, I cannot say. It may be that it was
the setting of a goal, aiming, with endeavour and patience to its
attainment, that had meaning for him, more than the achievements or the
striving itself.
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Gartel Frere had been once a green and
shining world – the gem of the colonised planets – but it was dying.
Not because of carelessness or ignorance, for its peoples had been good
stewards of their waters and many lands, but of geological forces beyond
their control.
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They had long been troubled by earth
movements, by landslides, and the gradual subsidence of low-lying ground
along the margins of their coastal regions.
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But came a cruel day when a terrible
earthquake destroyed one of their most important cities – its havoc
reaching out even to the surrounding tranquil boroughs and quiet
sanctuaries. Earthquakes became more frequent and withal more violent
and destructive, and much more widespread; the oceans hazardous for
trading vessels; a volcano rose from the sea floor, and spread ash and
hot, burning dust across large swathes of the green valleys of the
adjoining peninsula, smothering crops and killing livestock and people.
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These events were not entirely
unexpected, for Gartel Frere’s learned men had known for some time that
they were destined to occur. Its leaders, had not, however, expected
them to happen so soon, so swiftly or so disastrously, while they were
still recovering from the consequences of a recent war, and were as yet
unprepared.
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In this emergency, the councils of the
many lands met to seek a solution to their dire situation. They arrived
at three conclusions.
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The first option available to them was
to move the entire population to the few localities that were still
stable. Those places, however, were relatively small, and it would be
impossible to house and feed the inhabitants of Gartel Frere in such a
restricted area.
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The second was to live with the
upheavals, and to repair, with all the technology at their disposal, the
damage as it occurred. But faced with continual earthquakes which
destroyed so much of their infrastructure, and perilously high seas
which threatened their coasts, for much of Gartel Frere consisted of
island continents, that choice quickly became untenable.
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The third alternative was to build a
home for at least some of their people on another world. This was not an
impossible task, for they had explored much of the inner realm of their
system, and established mines and rudimentary settlements on Aethra.
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In the hour of their desperation, this was the alternative that they chose.
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Aethra was not a large world, harsher
in climate and poorer in terrain that Gartel Frere, and would have
capacity to support only a little over three quarters of Gartel Frere’s
population, but with time against them, its governing councils began the
labourious and lengthy process of transporting materials, and builders
and their families to construct roads and towns on Aethra; agricultural
workers to establish the first flocks, and prepare the soil for growing
food.
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It was a huge and complex task that
the leaders of those once pleasant and fertile lands had undertaken;
manufacturing, in the time that was left to them, enough ships to carry
the population of Gartel Frere safely to Aethra, and manufacturing them
in areas that were still stable. But as the situation on Gartel Frere
became increasingly critical, its governments were hindered often by
frustrating delays in transporting materials over damaged and unstable
roads, and with people forced from their lands by violent and
increasingly severe earth tremours ; people for whom care and shelter
needed to be found.
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Complicating the desperate
circumstances which they faced were the sly and predatory assaults
launched against them by the people of Nothus, the fourth world. Nothus
had always been an uneasy neighbour, its habitants clever and
aggressive, and several times, conflict had erupted between the two
worlds.
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Not being strong enough, at that time,
to attack Gartel Frere directly, the ships of Nothus nonetheless
managed, on several occasions, to inflict heavy damage on Gartel Frere’s
attempts to broaden their base on Aethra.
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Perhaps, even then, the two worlds
could, with some effort and a little of good will, have put aside their
differences and co-existed, if not in harmony, at least without
conflict.
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But I have noticed, from my own
reading, how often and how eagerly men channel so much of their energies
into warfare, and give but scanty thought and resolution towards the
more difficult problem of peace.
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It was in these strivings and battles
that the man from Iada was engaged, protecting the ships transporting
colonists and labourers to their new world.
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I have wondered often why he stayed,
risking his life for a world and a people not his own. Perhaps he
thought that in time he would return home, riot realizing that once a
man has travelled far from his beginnings, has grown and changed, it is
not always possible to go back.
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A pasta meal of fusilli ai ferri.
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That was it, the “Decree Nisi” had
come through, the “estate” divided down the middle…but the ex got the
Family Ford, the big Blackwood dining table, most of the kitchen
utensils and the family dog….she could have the dog..a hairy, aggressive
Jack Russell bitch…she could have the dog!
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A full year and a bit had already
passed since that final separation, and now the divorce was finalised..I
hadn’t even seen the ex for more than six months..I didn’t want to…the
memory of so many trying years was enough to turn me away from ever
wanting to see her again!
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I retained the house as it was central
to the final straw of that marriage..Meg didn’t like the house…or the
postcode..both were too “low brow” for her..but then I suppose my
enrolling in a mature entry course at the university to study Roman
History/ Classics didn’t endear me to HER wishes of continually
attending ad-infinitum many New Age Workshops run by this Eastern
suburbs Guru tosser that while being rather vague about just WHAT was
her central philosophy, knew for certain the value of modern currency!
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But anyway, I kept the house…or
rather, the bank let me stay in the house for the duration as long as I
kept up repayments…I was having trouble studying at the university AND
keeping up with the mortgage…There was only one thing to do…choose
between Classical Studies and the mortgage…I put the house on the
market.
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This involved the necessity of
preparing the property for the inevitable open inspections..now, I am
not an expert on the subject of property desirability, but I do know
that a vase of pretty flowers always makes the most drear room look so
much brighter..and since it is an old adage that ; “A house without a
woman is like a lantern without light”..flowers it would be.
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I told you that the family car went
with the missus, so I was reduced to Shank’s Pony for the short trips to
the shops and the bus for the trip to the University..now it happened
that right next door to that bus stop was a house that had in its front
yard the most brilliant display of sweet peas I had ever seen..so
bright!..so brilliant!…and totally overflowing the trellises and beds it
was displayed in…I had to have some! I had seen the incumbent of that
house pull into her driveway several times as I waited for the bus..and
we did exchange smiles at different times..ok..I’m not a sorry looking
character, I have kept my shape and condition from those many years as a
carpenter in the building trade..and the lady in question was quite a
looker herself..; rich, full, dark hair past her shoulder, full woman’s
body, Italian, I thought..around fortyish..soft breasted with those
Italian hips that would fill out with ageing…but for now SO rounded and
full…a delight!…I had never seen a male attached to either the woman or
the property.
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So it was with some anticipated
pleasure that I knocked on the front door to ask if I could please have
some of her gorgeous sweet-peas to grace the front rooms of my house.
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Maria-Rosa ( for that was her name I
was to learn) opened the door a little and instantly “looked me up and
down”..having satisfied herself that I was relatively harmless and
recognising me from my standing at the bus-stop, she smiled and with a
sensuous wry tone said..
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“Hello..fancy seeing you here…let me
guess..you’ve missed your bus and you are asking for a lift to
town?”…and she broadened her smile with the tip of her tongue protruding
cheekily between her teeth. I gave a bit of a giggle at the instant
humour.
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“A lift to the university would be
good, but no..not now…I have come to ask if I can have a bouquet of
those lovely sweet-peas you grow in your front yard to put into my front
room..”
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“Entertaining, are we?” Maria-Rosa inquired.
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“No…selling up.” I gave my truncated reason.
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“Oh…” Maria-Rosa’s face dropped a
little..”..that’s a shame, I was beginning to set my clocks to your
standing there at the bus stop”….The lady had a sense of humour that I
found much to my liking..but I was here “on business”…
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And those multi-hued flowers did
wonders to brighten the place.for Maria-Rosa was more than generous and
clipped off enough stems with her secateurs and gloved hands to let me
place a vase full in both the lounge and the kitchen..not only once, but
several times over the period of ‘open display’ times…
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My house was on the edge of a park and
a path wound past my front fence across the expanse of parkland..I was
not far from Maria-Rosa’s house and sometimes she would make her way
across the park to the delicatessen over the other side..One day as I
was turning over the soil under the hollyhocks, Maria-Rosa leant on the
fence…
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“I thought you didn’t have any flowers?…these look nice”. And she stroked the hollyhock stem.
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“Yes..they are nice, but better here
in the garden as a show than inside..Your sweet-peas are so bright and
delightful..thank you very much.”
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“Well, perhaps you can thank me by
inviting me in for an afternoon coffee?” Maria-Rosa smiled..and of
course, it seemed like a good idea to myself also..We sat at the kitchen
table with our instant coffees and Maria-Rosa had a good squizz around
at my kitchen, which I thought was neat and tidy..ready for inspection.
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“Your kitchen smells funny”. She commented, with her nose wrinkled.
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“Oh..” I was surprised and sniffed the air several times.
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“I don’t mean it stinks” she explained “I mean it smells stale and…uncooked in”..
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“Yes, well..I have been avoiding cooking here as I don’t want to dirty the place up before the inspection”.
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“How many inspections do you have?”
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“Once a week.” I replied.
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“So what have you been eating?”
Maria-Rosa inquired..I had to drop my eyes a tad shamefacedly at her
question and hesitatingly replied..
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“Maccas..among other
things”…….Well…the look she gave me!..she then trulled her fingers on
the table-top and looked at me disgustingly..
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“Why cannot you men look after
yourselves?…” she leant toward me “Look, I’ll do you a favour just this
once and invite you over to my place for dinner tonight…the kids will be
with their father for the weekend and I will cook you up a good pasta
meal..you’re looking thin and underfed…” She stood to leave..”bring some
wine..” she commanded, then raised her eyebrows in mocking inquiry and
asked ; ”Shall I wash my cup for you too?”…and she smiled that beautiful
smile she has and touched the side of my face affectionately with her
hand..”Addio until this evening…six o’clock sharp!..and hey..”and she
waved her finger “no funny business.”
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At precisely the appointed time, I
knocked on Maria-Rosa’s front door…there was a pause of several seconds,
then a shout from inside.
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Upon that exacting instruction, I
looked for the gate to the back yard and made for it unhesitatingly.
Upon entering Maria-Rosa’s back yard, I was instantly overwhelmed by the
sight of a profusion of home-grown vegetables..all that could be named
of the season of local fruit and veggie shop produce was growing in that
back yard..
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There were thick, dark fronds of
cavollo nero, still heavily laden broad bean plants looking toward the
end of their season leaning over rows of lettuce interspersed with herbs
of basil, coriander and several other unrecognisable condiments..New,
half grown tomato plants hovered under halos of bamboo bracing stands
ready to stake-tie the growing stems..Be-headed artichokes towered next
to a side fence of wooden palings, a well mulched bed of asparagus stems
pushing their inquisitive phallus skyward carefully kept separate from
other plantings over the eastern side of a garden path, while fresh
plantings of what must be the Summer vegetables filled the remaining
area of a carefully tended garden…I was impressed..and I instantly
recalled and recoiled from a disparaging comment made by an Australian
teen I knew back many years ago who wrinkled her nose at the suggestion
of growing one’s own vegetables..
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“Oh no!…only wogs grow their own vegetables!”
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“Hello!..” I called toward the house..Maria-Rosa’s head poked out through some sliding doors.
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“C’mon in.” she gesticulated with her head “I’m here in the kitchen..”
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I entered through those sliding doors
into a world of wild, sensuous aromas, heavy with voluminous smells of
heated olive oil, garlic, onions and tomato sauces…a steaming stainless
steel pot of water stood slowly on the boil awaiting it’s burden of
apparent pasta that I could see lying nearby on a cutting board.
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But this wasn’t your ordinary
spaghetti pasta that you can buy for a couple of dollars down the
supermarket…these were obviously the home-made job…thick as and with
what looked like a hollow centre…
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I put the bottle of chianti (I had
presumed on her nationality in a rather gauche way, I admit) on the side
bench of the kitchen and went to gaze at the pasta there. Maria-Rosa
picked up the Chianti bottle, turned it around and touched the
reedy-husks type wrapping on the body of the bottle..she didn’t exactly
wince at the pastiche of the product, but I could sense the scorn!…
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“This is too good for now, let’s save
it for another occasion…” and she placed it on a high shelf..”here, I
have a bottle already opened…it is home-made by Franco, an Italian
friend I know…he has really perfected his style…” and she poured some
dark, rich wine into an ordinary drinking glass with fluted sides..”
Salute!” she cried and we chinked glasses…I could see that Maria-Rosa
was a no-nonsense woman…and as a recently semi-retired carpenter
tradesman, I was very impressed with her “workmanlike” manner..
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“What sort of pasta is that?” I asked.
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“ It is Calabrian fusilli ai
ferri..Maria-Rosa replied..what we in Australia would call “knitting-
needle fusilli” it isn’t the same as those short corkscrews of dried
pasta that most manufacturers produce. These are spaghetti noodles with a
hole in the middle, created by rolling and stretching the dough around a
very thin dowel…or perhaps a knitting needle..I use the long piece of a
metal clothes hanger that a friend cut for me”.
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“And you make it yourself?” I stupidly
remarked..Maria-Rosa paused in her action of placing an onion into a
small muslin bag and frowned at me…
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“Of course I do…I have to..no-one else
is going to do it for me.” And she relented her frown and turned it
instantly into a broad smile to me..”Tonight I am making it for you”.
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“Oh..I wouldn’t expect you to go to that much trouble for me.” I protested.
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“But I am not doing it JUST for you…I
am doing it for US both!”…that smile again..”If I am going to cook, I am
going to enjoy WHAT I am cooking…eh?” and she pointed to a chair at the
end of the kitchen table she was working on and upon my seating pushed a
shallow plate of antipasti toward me..” Here nibble on these while I
prepare the dinner.”
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My word!…upon that large, shallow dish
were several delicious looking helpings of home prepared hors
d’oeuvres…there were artichoke hearts in olive oil, small bocconcini
balls, some flans of chargrilled capsicum also in olive oil, broadbeans
uncooked but prepared heavens knows how but tasting so wonderful!..there
were olives, both green and black..small cuts of proscuito, rolled
around small asparagus pieces and several other un-nameable treats that
just washed my mouth with saucy flavour and thrilled the senses with
promise of delight..there were slices of ciabatta bread to soak up the
flavours of the olive oil and I was left wondering if this is the
appertiser, what foundation of paradise would the main course be!
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“don’t fill up on the hors d’oeuvres”
Maria cautioned..content that I was gorging on her creations “leave a
little space for the pasta”.
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“But this is so beautiful!” I exclaimed..
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“No…you must not say “beautiful”..in
Italian, we do not use that word to describe food..that word is used to
describe a beautiful object or person…like a woman…for food we use the
word ; “buono”..: “good”…for food is good..good food is good for you..it
is just that ..good.”
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“Well then THIS food is very
“buono”!”and I smiled to Maria…we smiled to each other. Maria-Rosa leant
close to me and plucked an olive from the dish and slid…yes..that is
the best description of her action..she slid that olive between her
soft, red lips and while looking into my eyes closely, slowly masticated
the olive then let the pip drop from between her lips onto a side
dish…I did note that gesture most carefully.. after all, I convinced
myself..I’m not a slouch.
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“But tell me why you put in such work
just to give a meal to a neighbour as myself?” I was indeed intrigued at
the obvious spread of preparation in front of me, for while I
appreciated the effort, I was quite amazed that Maria would make such an
effort just for me.
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I sat there in my chair for an
extended silence from both of us after I had asked that
question…Maria-Rosa’s face displayed little emotion and she kept at the
preparation of the meal..she did turn to me after a short time and just
looked to me and gave me one of those elusive smiles that women are so
good at…what did it mean?…that sort of smile..
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Maria-Rosa then took a medium sized
red onion and placed it into a small muslin bag with a tie-string and
placing it on a stout chopping board, took up a wooden meat-tenderiser
mallet, smashed down on the onion in the bag several times with some
force…She then opened the bag, extracted what looked like the skin and
husk of the onion and tippled out the now shredded pieces of that
onion…she had “cut” the onion without using a knife!…I had to admit I
was amazed…I had never seen such a thing before.
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“Why didn’t you just use a knife?” I asked…
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Maria-Rosa again gave me that elusive
lift of her lips…then she leaned upon her hands upon the table and
explained the whole business of the meal and her and me.
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“Do you know that in Italy..in
Calabria where my grandmother came from..pasta is called the meal of
love..because everybody loves pasta…everybody..but it has another
connection where my people come from..My Nonna told us about the men of
the village there on the coast whose working life was as fishermen…They
would leave their homes and go to sea on the trawlers for months at a
time…it depended on the catch as to how long they would be gone…plenty
of fish meant a short season…less fish, longer out at sea…there was no
point returning with an empty hold..the village depended upon those
fishermen for both food and pay.”
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Maria-Rosa then became busy with her
hands breaking up and stripping the vegetables with her fingers while
she spoke..never once did she pick up a knife to cut the food..even with
the soppressa salami, and the cheese, she broke a large piece off and
crumbled it in her fingers..all the sauce preparation and condiments
were measured and done with only her fingers..
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“Turns were taken by the old people to
watch from the cliffs to see if the boats were returning..and when the
cry went up that the boats were seen coming over the seas, great
preparation was made by the women to welcome their husbands and sons
home..and the food that was most prepared was pasta…and my Nonna always
cooked the one meal to welcome my grandfather home..for as my Nonna said
of those times and I suspect it is still relevant for these
times..perhaps even now to yourself..When men are away from the home and
their families for such a long time, living in cramped and wild
conditions..catching, killing, gutting their kills, blood and guts and
waste all around..not that clean or conducive to love and
affection..living among only men..they go back to a wild state and
become detatched from the needs and comforts of home life..they become
brutal..as is their nature..so my Nonna..and the other women in the
village welcome their men back into the life of home and family.
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And it was this meal of fusilli ai
ferri..that re-introduced her husband to the joys and comforts of
home..and she cooked it with the touch of love…that is, she would not
use a steel blade to cut the ingredients, as the taste and smell of
steel was so familiar to those fishermen with all the fish they would
cut and clean, they were sick of even the sight of it…and she showed me
one day with a piece of chicken..she tore off a piece with her fingers
and fed it to the cat, who gulped it down..she then cut a piece off with
a knife and offered it to the same cat…and the cat smelt it and refused
it as she could smell the steel..so to prepare the food with just your
fingers, was to do it as an act of love..So also tonight, I prepare this
meal for us with my fingers as I am making it for the love of good
company..for is it not good and proper that a woman should enjoy the
company of a man as much as the man for a woman?”…and Maria-Rosa smiled
again that beguiling smile.. Maria-Rosa had already prepared the
ingredients for the sauce and was adding such to a concoction of scented
delight would make an alchemist writhe in ecstasy!
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“You see so many food dishes served up
that look very photographic and tasty, but in so many of those
well-presented meals there is the one important ingredient missing that
makes all the flavours an eating delight..and that is love..one cooks
for those one loves with love..” and she then placed her index finger to
her lips and licked the silken sheen of olive oil off it..she saw me
look at her in this action and paused with her finger still between her
lips..then spoke..”There”..she softly said.. “you will get to taste a
modicum of me with each bite, but I am only to be satisfied with just
gazing at you..”…again she teased me with her cheeky eyes.
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I suddenly realised Maria-Rosa’s
objective for inviting me to share this meal with her..this sultry
woman, this gourmand of gorgeous sensuality was using the food, the
preparation of , cooking, taste, smell and feeding to me as a vehicle of
seduction….this Italian beauty was seducing ME with the taste and
language of cooking..between the rich odours of the food, the
appertisers, the sights, colours and the second helping of that rich,
fruity wine, I couldn’t think of a better way to be seduced..”Press on!”
I subconsciously concurred..and it was in this soporific state that I
first noticed the music in the background…a soft but rhythmic beat along
with a kind of soft wailing chant by some women..
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“What is that music?” I asked Maria-Rosa.
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“The Tarantella…a cultural thing of
the region..the music accompanies the dance of the Tarantella..” and
while Maria-Rosa tended a shallow pan of hot oil, she explained to me
“The Tarantella is an excuse for women of the village to display their
young bodies to potential men of the village…their suitors…the theory is
that having been bitten by a Tarantula spider, the only way to rid
oneself of the poison, was to dance in a voluptuous frenzy till in a
state of delirium to drive out the evil poison..”..Maria tippled the
onion into the pan and stirred the sizzling pieces…”Of course, in the
process of dancing, the young lady would contort her body to show all
her best curves and attractions to the man, particularly to her chosen
man, watching…perhaps to even make him jealous of the other men seeing
her body and so drive him to a frenzy of want of her…which, of course,
he couldn’t have unless he wed the lass”…Maria-Rosa then threw in some
more ingredients into the pan…I could see small pieces of the sopressa
and the pancetta and along with these she tippled in a measure of
whisky..she let these cook for a while to, as she explained, let the
alcohol evaporate..when the meats were crisp, she added some peeled
tomatoes and a rich paste-like tomato sauce she had preserved from the
last season’s crop..Just watching the dexterous actions she was using to
control the level and sight of those cooking ingredients was
mesmerising…add to this the warmth of the wine and the soft-heavy
drumming of the music of the Tarantella, I could feel myself being lured
into a sensation of embracing delight.
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To the simmering pot of boiling water,
Maria-Rosa added the pasta..and from that deed, instantly switched back
to the sauce and added some fresh porcini mushrooms that she had
soaking in water..she stirred this sauce and waited for the pasta to
cook..
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I took this moment to examine this
womanly delight here with me..and I couldn’t help but compare those
dancers of the Tarantella to the svelte Italian body of Maria-Rosa..for I
could now see she had prepared herself just as diligently as she had
the ingredients for this meal..her tights sculptured her legs a
curvaceous delight from the delicate, leather sandals that graced her
slender feet to the firm, muscular thighs that disappeared under a light
cotton shirt with a tail that modestly covered a full bottom and
sweeping hips just made to be held in tight embrace…the shirt was
buttoned just high enough to let the décolletage reveal the full, soft
volume of her breasts and cleavage did draw my eye to that most inviting
of a woman’s treasures..her long hair falling around and sometimes into
that deep attraction between her bosoms…and I have to admit it was a
difficult job to drag my gaze away when it seemed Maria-Rosa was doing
her level best to display those choice mammaries to me.
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Several times during this period of
concentration on the cooking of the meal, we would top up our glasses of
the rich wine and smile affectionately to each other..I could see where
the evening was heading.
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After the pasta was cooked “al dente”
Maria-Rosa drained it and added it to the sauce..she mixed it in well
and added basil and diced provolone…she let the dish rest to melt the
provolone..then divided it so I had the greater measure…which she
delighted in letting me see the favour to myself..and to the separate
dishes, she then added the grated pecorino with a sprig of basil and
placed that sumptuous feast in front of me…the scents that wafted from
the meal into my nostrils was both sensational and sensual..
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Maria-Rosa marked well my reaction and then whispered in a most instructive manner..
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I confess to filling myself with that
meal and then accompanied the taste with another glass of Franco’s
wonderful fruity wine..I was totally consumed by the entire process of
what had passed since first arriving at the kitchen of Maria-Rosa..and
whatever her intent for this evening, I was fully prepared to satisfy
her every demand and that demand was soon to transpire, for once the
meal had been fully consumed, the residue sauce scooped up with spoon
and finger from my plate and I fell back into my chair with that glass
of vino in a most, well almost satiated appetite, I could see Maria-Rosa
smile again that ever beguiling smile to me so that it lingered so
sensuously on her lips for such a long moment that I could be certain
she had a finale up her sleeve
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And then it came just as the street
lights turned on and one could become aware that the noises of the
suburb had ebbed and mellowed so that a kind of peace descended over the
penumbra of light.
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Maria-Rosa looked to me with the
hunger of a loving woman in her eyes, tossed down the last of the wine
in her glass, placed it upon the table and leaned over to me to kiss me
on the lips and to whisper into my ear..
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“And now, caro mio..to bed…”
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Intermission of Poetry, arts and craft.
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Battle scene.. Australian War Memorial.
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Australian Imperial Force.
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Died France, 3rd May, 1917.
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Since flesh of your flesh,
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In the call of that small bird,
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Of your fears, dreams, wonderings,
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Of the hopes you cherished?
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Because of so many young men
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From the ruins of the past,
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Can came our country’s future,
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When we ,stand in silence
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Before the dawn, remember,
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That those who fell In that great war,
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To a cruel, barbaric death.
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Lest we forget the trust bequeathed us.
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Lest we forget the sacrifices made.
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Lest we forget their names,
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Kateri Duke…Images of Sacred Spirit.
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’Tis the last time in this world I’ll see, my lover’s eyes loving me,
The last time gently feel, her warming hands caressing thrill,
The last time her breath whispers many sweet nothings into my ear,
The last, soft touch of her hand, lay upon my breast so dear.
For time has commanded with the coming of an age,
For our moment of passion be left, discarded, upon life’s stage.
For what needs be done, best be swiftly made,
Linger not over the pain of lost and parted indefinitely,
As, my love, these aged eyes can still weep profusely,
At the inevitable, regretful, loss of thee,
And time hath but scant regard dispassionately,
In what becomes of the love that passed between you and me. …..
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Come, friends, listeners, gather ’round me,
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Together we shall hear of the story I plead,
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Turn life’s pages with its entrancing scenes,
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Witness the unfolding of one’s living deeds,
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And tell you I shall, the story of “The Nesting Tree”.
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At the back of the old settler’s hut, there you will see,
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An old, so very old, gnarled branched mallee tree.
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It’s central trunk long dead, smoothed and grey,
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Time’s caress removed rough bark and did sand,
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All sharp edges from that tall, trunk so grand.
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There is a hollow up a dozen feet from the bole,
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Just to the left of a greying spar, bone sculp’d,
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That give nesting shelter every year to galahs.
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Their red and grey colours matched as a pair,
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Returning season on season to raise chicks there.
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Now, every summer of the last twenty five,
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The same pair made that nesting tree their hide,
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Come back every year, for they mate for life,
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There they’d patiently sit..lay eggs, raise a brood.
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There they’d return each year to reclaim their abode.
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Galahs were there when we first bought the place,
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There when my parents built the first house,
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They were there long after I was engaged,
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They were there when I left in a marriage done,
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There when I returned years later with my son.
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For the marriage failed, my husband a beast,
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When in drunken rage I would hide from his fists,
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All too often he would strike out in raging hate,
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But came the time when I no more would suffer,
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Returning to my home..to my father and mother.
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And I marked similar with those galahs I would see,
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They too returned to reclaim their nest-tree,
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That in the end I too did return to familiar territory,
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Returned to that home where I could rest, be free,
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Returned to safety in mine own “Nesting Tree”.
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Is it our fate in a struggle to succeed,
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That sometimes the odds fall so great against need,
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So much hurt that leaves one’s heart to bleed,
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That with the loss complete of all and sundry,
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No choice but return to one’s own Nesting Tree?
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And it was that year when loss I first redressed,
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When I became more inured to life’s cruelness,
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That I found a chick fallen from the galah’s nest,
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Whether it be cat attack or just plain excess,
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I never knew, but I held that chick in gentle caress.
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I held that bird without hope, tender fledgling,
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And I was of two minds as to what to do,
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Leave it down and let nature deal the fatal blow?
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Yet in its small, frightened eye, I could myself espy,
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And who was I to refuse it balm, never had it done me harm.
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Why not, with helping touch relieve its hurt,
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With tender love & care, will it not sing its dirge?
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“It will not fly free” you could say..but then, does a tree run away?
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Does oyster glued to rock not wait in patience for its food?
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So this bird too, some moments I’ll share, a little of life’s splendid air.
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For its helplessness struck close to my heart,
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Was I not also hurt in helpless compact?
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And I thought it too I could grant a fresh start,
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So I raised it up to a sprightly young bird,
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And its company and song the comfort I did need.
|
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Came the drought of those four long years,
|
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The galahs never returned to claim their nest,
|
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Very few remained in the paddocks and trees,
|
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And I can only presume they left for fear,
|
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Of dying in a land left barren and drear.
|
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But my bird’s company and talk stayed with me long,
|
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Long after my mother and father “passed on”,
|
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Long after I had said cheerio to my son,
|
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As he left to find work, another place, another town,
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I could not in all fairness hold him down.
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That left me alone on the farming property,
|
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Alone with that galah as my only company,
|
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For how many old folk had now passed away,
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But it was alright, for I had my familiar ways,
|
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My garden and church and community days.
|
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But all this world of mine came crashing down,
|
|
Just when I thought the future I owned,
|
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When my son, the father’s blood, took to drinking,
|
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And in a state of drunken wild, a car-crash took my only child,
|
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And left me with only my broken dreams to hold.
|
|
And it was on one day several years gone past,
|
|
Orchard and gardening the balm of my heart,
|
|
When the numbness of love lost had since passed,
|
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Habit and routine had done its hard work,
|
|
Only leaving moments of sadness to burn its mark.
|
|
I watched my pet galah at the casement window sit,
|
|
Looking to the outside world in wistful sight,
|
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And I couldn’t help but feel the moment had come,
|
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Like my own search for a land of peaceful times,
|
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To let her feel the strength of wind on her wings.
|
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It was in the steadfast look of that galah I could see,
|
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That it was looking, staring constant out toward a tree,
|
|
Its trunk bare, with a hollow, behind the old settler’s hut,
|
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And following its gaze I could clearly conceive,
|
|
Its hungering sight falling onto The Nesting Tree.
|
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It was many years that I kept as pet that galah,
|
|
Fed it, held it, laughed at its stumbling larks,
|
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Cursed it for when it tore into packets of seeds,
|
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And mocked it when it danced for its tea.
|
|
Its hobbling-bobbling a curious sight to see.
|
|
But on that one day it did dawn on me,
|
|
That I was now obliged to set it free,
|
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For I owed it to myself to also believe in me,
|
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So I kissed it’s crown and stroked it’s wings,
|
|
And opened the window and let it feel the wind.
|
|
There awhile sat the galah in steady repose,
|
|
As if deciding whether it worth the risk to soar,
|
|
Then turned to me and bobbed it’s crest..it knows,
|
|
Took a couple of times spreading wide its wings,
|
|
And flew away out to the sun in tumbling turns.
|
|
Two years passed and I thought I’d never see,
|
|
Again that galah that I came to set free,
|
|
Then one fine summer day near sunset I did glean,
|
|
Silhouetted against the brazen afternoon shine,
|
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A shape of galahs outside my window screen.
|
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And sure, there, as I stand so near to thee, my galah with a mate had come back to me!
|
|
We called out to each other with our own familiar chitter-chatter in repartee,
|
|
She pranced to me her mate by a nodding of her crest raised in laughing scree,
|
|
Bobbing and bowing in welcoming greet to me…..I reciprocated with exaggerated bow..”thankee”..
|
|
They then took to their wings, in resounding scream,
|
|
And I rushed to the window where I could discern,
|
|
They did fly true, fly free..returning once more,
|
|
As was done there first with her parent’s before,
|
|
To stake claim for their new home..near to my home..in The Nesting Tree.
|
|
Section #3..Topical Articles of interest.
|
|
The passing of the amateur.
|
|
If I consult this little pencilled in
book of a shopping bill from a Mr. D. Lambert & Son, general store
and victuals supplier of Towitta, for the fortnight in February 1936, I
see that a packet of Yo-Yo biscuits was a mere 7 pence, and while the
entire shopping for that bill was a total of 1/14/7 (one pound fourteen
shillings and seven pence) there was deducted for 4 dozen eggs and 6
pounds of butter as barter for a total of 9 /6 pence taken off the
bill….and then Mr. Lambert would continue on his way in his horse and
sulky delivery wagon to the next family farm to repeat the procedure…a
round trip he did once a fortnight to deliver the grocery list and pick
up bartered exchanged produce. A congenial and fruitful arrangement of
the times.
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|
These casual trades between
shop-keeper and households were common fare in the times…there is also
record of an Indian dry-goods trader used to do the rounds, selling or
trading cloth and haberdashery goods, staying at this or that farm for a
day or so then moving on. Of course, many of us from the boomer
generations remember the “milky” with his plodding horse drawn cart
running from house to house with billy-can and scoop…the ice-man and
baker…of course, who could forget Mr. Hahn, the green-grocer, parked up
in the suburban side street with a clutch of housewives at the back of
his truck while he proudly showed them his cluster of fine fresh chokos!
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|
All this was done in the most
amateurish manner, the local trader, the (mostly) women of the house,
the common supply of goods and the casual chiacking between them all….I
remember staying at my auntys in Sedan and her delivery of groceries
from the local store included one single biscuit..”Oh look…that silly
man…just because I wrote ; biscuits / one…instead of a packet he sends
me one biscuit!…silly man!” …such were the frivolous back and forth of
trading in those times
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The same could be said for the male
side of the farm in the cropping and upkeep of animals and equipment.
The farm blacksmith shop an integral component of farming practice,
needed to repair or invent parts required for harness and wagon…sheds
and homesteads…the entire structure, social and practical a continuity
of the self-sufficient amateur application…local women as midwives…local
apothecaries with their huge tomes of folk medicine and a head full of
experience and old-wives tales and “cures” that must have cost as many
lives as they saved..possibly an average equally contested by some
modern medical practices and could compete with the traffic causalities
of these times.
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But what stands out most is the
skilled amateurism of those times. The time-lapsed photographs for the
post and beam “pioneer hut” to the cut-slab and thatch sheds of the
first settlement to “The new house” bracketed the obvious faults of the
DIY constructs of the first to prefer the hired trades to build the
second…and it was the pause in between the original claiming of the
property and the sweat and tears that built up the family fortune enough
to bring in the tradesmen to make the growing family’s life more
comfortable and life in general more liveable…for the burden of home
life of the times fell solidly upon the shoulders of the women. Whilst
on the farm, developments in agricultural machinery remained pretty
static right up until the second world war…the cumbersome stump jump
plough the major improvement while all else was structured for
application to horse-drawn machinery and it’s risky use, for horses
could be prone to fright and flight, taking chains, harness, equipment
and handler on a wild unrestrained gallop across lumpy, ploughed
paddocks and straight through fences toward the home stable…a most
unsettling experience.
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And it was about this time that with
the advanced development of mechanical tractors that all this came to an
abrupt end…and with that sudden killing off of a labour intensive era,
was the decline of community connection, for the mechanic and his garage
has become the “go-to” person for both fuel and expertise of machine
maintenance. No more saddler, blacksmith/iron monger..no more farrier
and horse doctor of even the exchange of local knowledge on animal
husbandry and with the demise of intensive labour farming, went the
families to the city or elsewhere and with them went the town choir, the
town band, the town baker, bank, church and assorted community
businesses, not to mention the sporting teams..and in the end in some
cases, the town itself…for the once “family farm” being bulldozed and
the property held in the portfolio of an Agri-corp absentee owner.
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But by far the most damaging wreckage
from this demise was the loss of the ethical creed associated with
labour and its work…the mantra of : “Responsibility – Work – Reward “
…to be replaced by the capitalist cant of Debt, Chance, and Compound
interest. For tooling-up for the demands of this new era of “Agri-corp”
farming meant mortgaging the family farm and then the squeezing of the
profit margins to compete within an open market of high-risk
cropping…pre-sale of crops and borrowing to sow, to harvest even in some
cases to just get their product to market…the final result ; collapse
of family fortune, community structure and the town fabric itself.
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Welcome to the new world of
“professional consultants” and political influencers…high debt, high
risk, low return, no future for the generational family farm.
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The Epistles of Pastor August Gersch.
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The two men stood shoulder to shoulder
on the precipice of the most Eastern knoll of the Mt. Lofty ranges, out
before them spread the vast, vast and dark, green veldt of the Murray
Mallee forest..here and there, at great distances apart, slim streams of
smoke rose toward the morning sun, depicting what they were to come to
know as campfires of the indigenous peoples of the region.. The
Ngaiawang, The Nganaguruku and the various clans of the region.
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A feeling of elation mixed with unease
captured August’s body…he was the pastor and leader of this first small
group of Germanic settlers assigned blocks of land by The South
Australian Company, out there in that vast forest. He was to lead them
into the wilderness.
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He felt the elation of discovery, as
he and his fellow pioneers were the first of their faith and peoples to
set foot on this plain and the thought of laying the base for both a
village community and a church to give praise to his God sent a thrill
of the power of endeavour through his body and mind..But at the same
time he felt an unease about whether he, himself had the measure and
capacity to carry the responsibility and burden of strength needed to
face and confront the unrelenting challenge of putting in train the
necessity of setting up what was required for the protection, shelter,
food and provision of the folk under his care….It was in consideration
of this uncertainty, that Pastor August quietly said a personal prayer
to his God seeking strength and encouragement…He then took a deep breath
and returned to the present to attend to his flock’s needs.
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“Julius”…he addressed the man standing at his shoulder “how deep is your faith?”
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“I have absolute faith in my God” he answered, and then added ; “I have confidence in you, Pastor.”
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The pastor turned and smiled to the
man; Julius, father of four children, husband to Ada and brother to
Wilhelm and gripped his shoulder..
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“Then come, let us trust in our God and believe in ourselves and we will civilise this wilderness.”
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The pastor then gathered the folk
around himself, said a short prayer of encouragement and faith and then
led the group down the long, shallow descent of the only marked track of
the Moorundie Road that led toward the still unknown distance that was
the Murray River…Pastor August Gersch led these first Germanic pioneers
into the maw of the Mallee Plains forest.
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Fifty persons including women and
children, twelve families, ten single men, five single women, and their
Pastor followed in orderly manner the lead wagon from a train of six
German wagons fully loaded, each wagon pulled by two draught horses,
down onto the flats to where the surveyed plots of land were allocated
to them out deep into the forest of mallee bush and grasslands.
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These pioneers carried on the wagons
all they needed to survive the time they needed to clear the land and
plough and sow crops for a first harvest as soon as possible, they
brought supplies of flour, corn and seed, they brought cuttings and
seedlings of familiar plants, both for decoration and necessity, they
brought implements for cutting and clearing the mallee, harrowing,
ploughing and seeding. They brought square metal tanks containing water
and were hopeful of finding and securing waterholes in the nearby
region.
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The task of clearing the mallee trees
had to be overcome, and this required a communal effort to complete, all
the men, women and suitable aged children joining in to clear each
other’s block of land..one to the next to the next, likewise in the
harrowing and ploughing, sharing the horses for the heavy deeds, but
first the heaps of timber and mallee-roots had to be burnt and levelled,
all timber boughs suitable for building sorted from the scrap, the
rocks and boulders cleared into heaps to one side..Shelters for the
families had to be constructed of makeshift pug and native pine, with
thatched roofs. These they first clustered together for security and
protection, the whole enterprise becoming a community of singular
ambition and intention.
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The plan for a small chapel was marked
out on common ground and after eighteen months of exhausting work, the
small community was confident enough to expand their gathering from
under a chosen tree as place of worship to set in motion the first
rudiments of laying a foundation for their chapel.
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This level of achievement would never
have been possible if not for the learned capabilities and social
acceptance of each member of the community. The natural inclinations of
such a hardy ethnicity as these illiterate peasants, being led by a
committee of more learned and read persons gave both solid knowledge of
needed work-skills to direct and complete the basic needs of the
community, combined with a scientific knowledge of how, where and when
to apply those actions best suited for the survival of the group in such
wilderness, these skills, combined with an unquestioned loyalty to
their faith in God gave strength of body and mind to the community to
overcome even the most catastrophic situations, like sudden death by
accident or in birthing, or the variables of weather and passing
illnesses. So the combined collective of the folk working together
toward the one end brought about an evolution of a completeness of the
singular community, which became the concentration of their collective
humanism unstoppable and faith inviolate.
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While these people toiled away in
establishing their small hamlet, they were not completely cut off from
communication with the outside world. Regular trips by horseback to the
nearest bigger town (if it could be called such in the budding province)
allowed post to and from relatives and family back in their old
country. These letters bringing news from Germany were transcribed by
the pastor both in the old country and this new with personal
information to and from the relatives of those illiterate folk and then
relayed to the relevant persons by the respective pastors. This way,
personal news from abroad was delivered to the small community.
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It was in one of these communications
to Pastor August from the head Pastor Kaval, that he was encouraged to
write uplifting letters back to the communities they left behind,
telling of their improved life and situations in the new country and
imploring others to make the journey along with their pastor to this new
prospect and improved opportunity for themselves and their families.
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Pastor August took it upon himself to
fulfill this obligation by writing a series of open “Letters to the
communities” explaining their lives in this new land, their hopes and
situations and their growing faith that a new beginning had strengthened
and given new direction to. He called the first of these letters, based
upon the Letters of Saint Paul ; “Epistle to The Silesians” .
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Pastor August Gersch..A Letter to my fellow Silesians.
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“Dear Brethren, by and under the
direction of our sacred duty to God, I, August Gersch, disciple of Jesus
Christ, servant to the congregation of God under the teachings of
Martin Luther apostle to Christ our saviour, pastor to our collective of
faithful souls dedicated to the faith, give greetings to you fellow
congregationalists of Silesia, in this year of Our Lord 1856. May the
blessings of God rain plentiful upon you there as it indeed has upon us
in this new land.
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I know of your situation and I feel
for your sufferings, for I and my congregation also suffered under the
tyranny of our sovereign governance. But be of good courage and hold
steadfast to our beliefs, for there is now a choice for release at hand
from your bondage, for I bring both hope and good news.
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For has not God in his wisdom and
glory not showered blessings and gifts down upon his brethren and
faithful followers that we can rejoice in the worship of his son Jesus
and raise our voices up in endless praise, my brothers and sisters. Even
in the darkest times when we were compelled at threat of pain and
death, did not God in his wisdom give his true believers a way to break
free from the bonds of those who would force us to break with our
traditions, our crafts and agriculture to be chained to the machinery of
their factories to toil and sweat and break on their wheels of
industry? Sever our contact with the earth and nature that brings us
close to the plan of God..that our crafts and weaving and animal
husbandry gives strength and honest character to our lives and
families..take us away from our neighbourhoods and community to drive us
into penury in overcrowded cities and slums to live and die in a
rotting ghetto of slavery to their greed and cruelty?
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For now I can tell you of this new land and life that awaits those with faith and courage to break from those bonds of slavery.
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My friends and fellow believers, I
tell you we, who have trusted in the will of our Lord, we who have
travelled under the advice of Pastor Kaval and with the blessings of
God, have walked into Paradise..for how else can one describe a land
without want, a land evergreen with trees that shower petals of every
hue of colour down on one as we pass under their wild and voluminous
boughs..a land whose natives have never known disease or starvation..a
forest never ending that stretches as far as the eye can see and the
mind imagine..a menage of wild animals not one of which is ferocious or
life threatening save the viper of which is present as a curse on any
land.
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Oh faith! That we can pray and give
thanks to our Lord throughout any season of the year without fear of
wild snowstorm or flooded valley or thunderous avalanche..And land!..God
be blessed there be land here enough to satisfy a legion of settlers
and double that number with their wives and children..let no man go
wanting for food or shelter, as the timber available here in this region
named “Mallee”, is long and straight, firm and strong and the grasses
and boughs thick and plentiful to thatch deeply any roof! The limestone
rocks can be burnt easily to lime for mortar and the larger to use as
structure for the walls.
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The sparsely populated native tribes
be not marauding nor plunderers, it is true that in the bigger town near
the coast, those natives there have been corrupted and poisoned with
merchant’s wine and many struck down with imported diseases that we
unfortunately have brought to them from far away. But the ones we have
come into contact out here in the mallee forests, have been very helpful
and have given much useful advice through mutual interpretation of
language, gesticulation and demonstration how they treat and make food
of those local animals suitable for consumption. They are quite willing
to make exchange of their ways and knowledge of native craft, skinning
and tanning of the fur of the Kangaroo for any of our useful implements
like an axe or knife, for theirs is a nomadic life taking them to a
distant river they tell of and places further afield..the agents that
come to us from the English governors of this province warn us of the
natives and implore us to do harm to them to drive them out of the land,
but we have spoken among ourselves and see no plan of God in doing such
harm to such generous folk, regardless of our opinion of their pagan
and humble ways..After all, they have already moved aside in
accommodating us in their hunting grounds and while they look askance at
what they see as our futile labouring with fire and steel, wagon and
wheel to grow food in a land already of plenty, and I am certain by the
way some of their elders narrow their eyes or laugh at our explanations
and deeds, they do think of us as the simpletons without knowledge
enough to let nature take its course and for us to follow in example.
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Indeed, those same governors of the
province will use all their cunning to try also to take advantage of us
settlers while we know not their language or ways, but we are of an old
peoples, with knowledge aplenty to inform us what is correct in form and
deed or what is right and proper in attitude..so we nod our heads in
agreement when spoken to, but turn away from their advice when out of
their sight. For what honest man would seek to compel another,
regardless of skin or learning how to boil an egg or sharpen a stick?
But these foolish men who sell us the land would compel us to adhere to
their corrupt ways..and what a waste of time is that chore, for we
people are of a race of men used to the slippery ways of dealers and
swindlers that come with hands sticky with sweet honey, but leave with
hands soaked with blood!..They be the fools that God will punish with
damnation.
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So indeed, my fellow citizens and
brethren, while God has given breath to you and your arms and heart be
strong and healthy, let you make similar decision as we who are now
living this life here in a land of plenty, giving thanks to God and his
son Jesus for lifting us out of the tyranny of those princes and
merchants that want body and soul to burn as industrial fodder in their
factories and cannon fodder in their armies, gather your families
together under your Pastor and pray that you have the strength of faith
to make the journey here to this new land where you can, like us fellow
citizens of the church of Jesus Christ our saviour, and continue the
life granted to the best of men and women, that we can work and live and
make strong families like humanity has done forever through time and
circumstance immortal and pray to God in our own churches that we can
build to thank together for a new life under those familiar old, old
stars that light the firmament of the heavens.
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Bless you all..and I remain your
servant as I am forever God’s humble servant in the name of our Lord
Father, Son and Spirit of all things Holy, Holy, Holy….Amen!”
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This being my first Letter to the Silesians in the year of Our Lord 1856..from Pastor August Gersch.
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(NB..If you are interested in
contacting the editors of this publication for information or to submit
an article, poem or story, please phone Joe Carli on 85652256..or mobile
; 0434355838 .thank you.) | |
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