Peter Matheson - from Alexandra

Peter Matheson

“The Quiet Walk”

(A Painting by Peter Matheson)

     One day, I was taking a quiet walk around the town, just looking around, getting to know it more. In a little lane called ‘Baker’s Lane’, across from the primary school and behind the main street, there are just a couple of shops – one of them deals in computers and the other is an art gallery. As I walked by the window of the art gallery, which was closed, a couple of paintings and a pencil sketch portrait caught my eye. I stopped to browse. The pencil sketch was detailed and seemed more real than a black and white picture. The two paintings had the trees and the bush as background. They seemed, obviously, paintings of our region and somehow captured the feeling of being local.

     It is subtle, yet sublime. For instance, even before I came to Australia, having seen a few Eucalyptus trees in India, I had a mental vision of how the landscape might look like with many of them, like giant broccoli. This mental picture was quite close to reality as I observed when I moved here. Now, I have started to observe and appreciate the subtle differences between the regions within Australia. These paintings were a reminder to me that I had reached a level of familiarity with Australia.

     One of the paintings hooked me in more deeply. It shows a couple, possibly in their late fifties, holding hands and taking a walk in the woods or even along their dirt driveway, surrounded by the characteristic tall, mountain ash trees found in this area. It seems like an evening perhaps, when the couple take a habitual walk, the comfort of their familiarity as a couple, their common appreciation of the bush, each other, and their life there seems to be obvious. These two are soul mates. Their life is good. They can set aside their worries for the moment. Otherwise they would not be walking like that. It must be a good life. Artists could paint such a walk in many different places, with so many different scenes and different couples, and they would all evoke the same feeling. The painting was titled “Quiet Walk”, it struck a deep chord in my own soul. I was quietly walking the streets, alone. I too wanted to go for a walk, like in the painting, with my soul mate. I could not. The person in my life, if asked to come for a walk with me would have likely asked me to “Take a hike!” Suddenly, the longing and the beauty of a simple walk through the woods, the magic of the moment captured, hit me. I could not wait to meet the artist.

     I wandered in another day when the gallery was open and met Peter Matheson, the artist who had painted that. Peter has this air of a debonair gentleman about him, an old-fashioned, friendly charm. I asked him about art supplies for my children, possibly art classes and mentioned the paintings I liked. I have rarely seen an artist who carries so many paintings and works of other artists, as well as his own, in his gallery for sale and not try to sell or push anything. He was kind, pleasant, let me appreciate all I want, without any pressure, and went back to a painting he was working on – a scene of the local area. He said I was welcome any time to come and browse around.

     Having come to know a bit more about Peter since then, I am not surprised. He is a true artist at heart, a person with a conscience, loath to participate in or do anything that takes advantage of people’s feelings for personal gain. Even if his own circumstances were difficult he would not compromise. He runs an art gallery and gives lessons, but does it his way. One of the early signs of this nature was when, in his younger days, he gave away a career in advertising that leveraged his ability to draw and paint.

     Peter came over to Australia from Glasgow, Scotland (he even remembers his postal address there) in about 1955 as a young lad of 11, on a ship through the Suez Canal. He is a self-taught artist who can put a photograph to shame in conveying the spirit of a place or scene. He won the third prize for his painting of a seagull in Glasgow when he was about 10. He knew from the feeling he got from the appreciation of his painting then, what he wanted to do most in life. But that is not all he did – he is also a good musician, played base-guitar, sang and ranks himself below his brother who chose to excel in music. Growing up near Melbourne in those days, Peter played Aussie-Rules footy, captaining his local team. He worked in many jobs – advertising, playing as part of bands, in a factory making belts and plastic moulding, hard labour as a linesman’s assistant in the telephone company. It is impressive - the ups and downs of life that he has gone through, the elegance with which he views them and carries himself. It is surprising that the vehicle he drives, now, is the first car he has ever owned in his life! He used taxis, push bikes, scooters and even drove others’ cars, before buying one of his own not long ago! Yes, he is an exception to the rule I observed in the driving life of Australian men.

     Peter listens patiently, to all my yakking about all the dreams and ideas I have, about what I want to do in life, in Alex and encourages me with a grasp of the core of what it is I really want to do. He is one of the persons that make me realise, I have found a home in Alex. I could live here, like him and others, doing what really nourishes my soul. I might find, down the years to come, life has a quiet walk for me too. I cannot simply move past that painting - every time I look at it or even think about it, I feel almost in it, but as someone watching the two walk by, they are not even aware of me. I am an intruder if I show myself and spoil the moment. They really need to be alone!

     There are many more of Peter’s paintings that will forever etch memories in the mind, by simply a scene, giving a flavour and character of this part of the country as it has been for a couple of hundred years or more. Paintings of cattlemen on their horses, herding the cows from grazing, people picnicking on the banks of the local rivers, misty mornings, sweeping views across meadows or paddocks to the nearby mountain ranges, views of Lake Eildon through the forests around it, waterfalls nearby, of such character and colour that you feel part of the scene.

Mr. Fix -It - from Alexandra

Mr. Fix-It

     Here in the country, people are not easily impressed. One of the popular bumper stickers on cars and trucks around reads “We’ll keep our cowshit in the country. You keep your bullshit in the city.” Fancy titles, qualifications and letters before or after your name mean very little to most. People do treat you with default respect and kindness, no matter who you are or what you do. Any knowledge you have is, of course, worthy of respect. However, if you can do something that people can see, can relate to, and help someone in real, immediate need, you slowly start to earn a reputation. Then it can become a bit of a pressure thing. It can be hard to live up to, consistently over a long period of time. But if you do that too, people are truly impressed with you and give you a nickname and it is then, that you have arrived! It can be bit hard to shake it off, I suppose, but it also gives you a chance to give back to the community from the best of your strengths and skills. You are accepted with your all your traits and valued. The feeling that it generates is, perhaps, what keeps one going.

     If you claim you are an engineer, people will look at what you can put together, what you can design, what you can fix. If you work with electricity, they would like to see what you can fix, set up and run that everyone can see and use. If one is a ‘computer engineer’ like me, they would like to see what I can set up or fix that they have problems with. Claiming esoteric knowledge of the data structures, algorithms or the internals of the circuit design etc., will bring out nods of polite interest, but if you fix someone’s pump, tractor, car, the mower, the radio, or TV or computer, or shed wiring, that they have problems with you get more genuine appreciation and respect. You will get a beer or basket of fruits and, over the long term, an appellation. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that we don’t have highly qualified people around Alex.  Many folk come here to retire and keep in touch with their prior skills and training. They tend to work at different levels to give the best of themselves to the community, working on the immediate needs of real people.

     I met a couple of such persons - engineers who have worked on sophisticated missiles for the military in their professional life and you could not tell by looking at the kindly old men on the school committee or the bowling team.

     One day at the library, as I was sitting in on a gathering of local booklovers, I met a man who had earned the name of “Mr. Fix-it.” He is unassuming, friendly and evidently well known. He had a salt-and-pepper short beard, just like the one I was sporting myself. His beard seemed a regular, well maintained one; while mine was just a phase of being ‘too busy with other stuff’ (read as ‘laziness’).  We were introduced by the librarian - this was James Scott. He said ‘Hello’ and we waved to each other anytime we met. One day at the primary school fete, this charming, friendly, spirited woman - James’s better half – Frances, walked up to me and invited me to visit her and James. At that time, I was overflowing with pears from my tree and saw the opportunity to give some away as well as to get to know them. I accepted. Of course, the visit ended with my coming back more loaded inside and out with more fruits and veggies than the little I drove up with! I also tucked into a good, large serving of Frances’s kindness and biscuits. Note to self – need to get her recipes for those biscuits!

     Frances and James live on a hilly rise overlooking the town and other hills around. Their garden produces the some real big pumpkins, tomatoes, pears and much more.  Frances is James’s anchor and together, they give back much to the community- driving a Red Cross van or help run a book store to fund the library among other things. The seniors are great in Australia. For them, most fun activities are combined or intertwined with some service to the community – the bowling club might have an activity to raise funds for the Rotary Club or for the meals-on-wheels program (delivering meals to people unable to cook) or the local hospital.

     If there is anything complex or too difficult to fix around town, they call in James at some point. His reputation precedes him. Keeps him busy too! Now I too can find someone to talk rocketry and local gardening with in the same conversation.

Colin and Heather Simcocks - from Alexandra

Colin and Heather Simcocks

Superman Col

     Across the street from us, live Col and Heather. They are an elderly couple in their nineties. I had an interesting misconception after first seeing them. I thought they could not do much at all in their apparent condition.

     One day, I saw Col in his wheelchair as he seemed struggling with putting out the rubbish-bin for the weekly service. I thought he would have some difficulty, went over, said “Hello” and offered to help. He let me help only to the point where I helped shut the gate.

     I thought it would be good to formally go over and introduce myself.  Later that day, I walked up to his house, knocked on the door, waited a while before it opened as Heather made her way to the door with her walker. Col was sitting on his couch with his walker nearby.  We had an introduction and chat. He offered me a cup of tea. I felt a bit bad, imposing on them but still was thrilled to see how they did it all. I was surprised they lived by themselves. They both use walkers and wheelchairs to get around.

     Heather had recently had a broken hip or thigh bone through a fall, recovered and they seemed fragile and delicate. It’s after seeing what they were capable of and what they did routinely at their age and condition that I started to actually envy them! All I can say now is this – at their age, I wish I could be like them!

     Col and Heather used to run their own farm nearby and after handing it over to their children, moved into Alex to spend their last days. They maintain a neat, organised, orderly home, a lovely, ordered garden full of vegetables, fruits and flowers that require heaps of effort. Col has a ride-on mower and maintains a spotless yard and nature strip - mine is a shame compared to his!! 

     The next day, I saw a car outside, with Heather being helped in. A little later, I saw Col moving towards the car. I reckoned it would be their son or daughter’s car driving them out, though I did not see anyone else. I was busy in my yard and moved on. In a few minutes, I saw the car driving past and the driver waved to me. He seemed almost as old as Col. Good heavens! it was Col!! Surely my eyes were mistaken, but it was Col!

     I have not seen many people in their thirties that would have the energy to do what they do. I think the key is, though slow in movement, their constant passion, their persistent energy, attention to detail and constant activity makes them achieve more than most. They both have a keen mind, a compassionate outlook and a kind, sharing nature.

     Their living example of independence (even though we are all ultimately dependent), in doing things for others at this age, over and above what they do for themselves, inspires me every single day, right across from my house. Within their capabilities they are able to reach across to many people, share what they grow. Col saw a laser-meter I had bought to measure distances and immediately took notes to pass it on, to get one for his son who might like it! The oranges, grapefruits and flowers that grow in their garden are absolutely fresh, taste great and many find their way into the tummies of my family.

     Until very recently, Col and Heather drove out by themselves. That brings up the story of amazing grace - not the famous song, but something I witnessed.

 

Amazing Grace

     One day, Peter, an artist that you will meet, saw me walking around town, offered me a lift and dropped me off near my home.  We saw Col, across the street, near his gate. I think he was putting out his rubbish-bin again. We walked over to say G’day. I, the new comer in town introduced Col and Peter, both local veterans. I reckon they had seen each other in town occasionally and know common friends.

     It’s a beautiful thing to see, how a chat develops into something memorable from a simple ‘Hello’ or ‘G’day’. They talked and I listened mostly. As men often do, Col enquired about the van that Peter drives. They were soon comparing notes and Col said something about his own car. I was drifting off a bit, my attention wandering, when with a smile, in a matter-of-fact way, Col said, he was giving up his driving license. I reckon he must have had one for about eight decades.

     The previous day, Col had gone to the main street, to shop and his parking had not been perfect. A local policeman had come up to him, with the thoughtfulness, kindness and respect you see even in law-enforcement, had noted Col’s age and suggested that he might have to get a medical certificate to renew his license. While Col could still do it, it would have been more embarrassing for him than difficult and on his own judgment, decided to give up his driving license that day.

     I am not sure until I lived around here, that I could appreciate what a driving license really means in the life of a typical Australian man. In India, growing up, I believed owning a car itself was a luxury and I used to think if someone had to give up driving, it is not a big deal, just giving up some comfort.  Here, they learn to drive very early, it is almost more important than legs for walking - the freedom, the basic requirement for all to get around in this vast country, to earn a living, you need a driving license. You can pretty much do more if you can drive here and even if you cannot walk. At Col’s age, giving up driving is like giving up your legs.

     Here was this man, until yesterday still driving his own car and taking along his wife, choosing to give it up. It surely was the passing of another milestone, that we will all have to pass if we should live as long and active as Col. Hearing him speak about it with a calm, quiet acceptance, with a smile, brought a sudden realization and a tear to my eye. It is always moving to see such amazing grace!

Respect Your Elders – Cultural Differences

     My town of Alexandra has many residents older than I am. They are kind, helpful and giving. In trying to give back and be respectful to my elders, I have sometimes, with the best of intentions, probably caused some mixed feelings. I appreciate the tolerance and grace of the people around who accept me for what I am, as of this moment, as I try to bridge deep, longstanding cultural differences. Often it takes me a bit of time to see it and work it out. I realise, I am conditioned by the culture I grew up with in India. Our deep conditioning guides our first default response, it takes conscious thought and effort to choose and act in a different way to go along with the culture of our present surroundings. What do you do when you see an old person ‘struggle’ with something? Or a child struggle or suffer pain? My Indian conditioning immediately kicks in and tries to do it for them, to prevent the pain as an automatic reflex. My life experiences and ‘wisdom’ later in life suggests not jumping in straight away always, or to wait until asked. It would seem patronising or worse to take over and not let a person ‘struggle’. It is perhaps something they enjoy and value.

     I saw Col, my neighbour one day, stuck on his ride-on mower near his gate. It was a hot afternoon and his machine had broken down. It would not start up. Col needed his walker to get away and get back inside. I saw him ‘struggle’ and make it to the shade inside and rest his body on his couch, looking dehydrated. He had to call a local mechanic who he knew and could not come up straight away. The mower was too heavy to be put away or rolled away into the shade away from the gate until there was further help. Col took it all in stride and good cheer. Seeing Col’s condition immediately brought out the deep conditioning inside me, it occurred to me to see if I could do something so Col would not have to go through it again.

     If my father or elders in India heard about what I saw, their first likely question to me would have been – “Did you not help? Did you not offer to mow the lawn of that elder gentleman in his 90s? At his age he should not have to do it and if you were a son I could be proud of, you would mow his lawn every time you do your own.” If that thought had not occurred to me and I did not offer to do so, they would feel they had not raised me right.

     Now, I happened to be on the lookout for a new lawn mower just about then, since my old one was gone. It occurred to me to suggest to Col that I could buy his big mower off him, get it fixed up and he need never worry about mowing his lawn again, I could do it for him every time. My bigger yard could have used a ride-on mower and his lawn would be an easier, smaller task I could do with pleasure. I suggested it to Col and Heather. It was their kind and gracious declining the offer that set me thinking and it quickly hit me. Of course, I was being presumptuous. It could have been taken as a bit patronising, insulting and taking away something that is very meaningful to Col and his fiercely independent nature. We have moved on fine from that, I have learned. I realise that if this same situation had occurred in India, the outcome would likely have been different. We are all different behind the similarities and still similar behind all the differences. The respect for an elder is the same cherished value anywhere, but how we express it acceptably may vary.

     Other interesting cultural differences between my upbringing in India and the western way of life here:

-         It was a compliment to tell anyone they have put on weight – makes sense, when for a very long time people had very little to eat or struggle to feed the family most people were skinny. The one who fattened up would have to be doing well and you are conveying that you are happy to see them eat well (do well).

-         Tell or treat someone as if they are older to you or older than their age. Even a person a month older will sometimes assert their seniority since age is associated with respect and people defer to them.

-         Persist in asking people to eat more after they have said they have had enough, saying ,”no you have not had enough, have this bit more.” Then you thrust a little more onto their plate against their will.

-        Not to formally invite real close friends who you want to treat like family. They get offended if you invite them formally. If you have a wedding or some important family occasion, you invite the friend by telling them – “Hey, I am not inviting you, you are family, I expect you to be there with us and helping just like the rest of the family!”

Separation By Fate

     One day, Col called me on the phone. Heather had fallen down and needed to be helped up. She had had fall a few months ago and it was lucky she had not broken anything, though she had to go to the hospital. She had come back home after that. It was always a bit dicey, if she hurt herself she would most likely need to stay in the hospital or go where she needed more help and care to just get around. She would have to move into an aged-care home.

     Heather and Col had managed to be living together for around 65 years, taking care of each other. They have done to this day even as they themselves got around with walkers and needed help for more strenuous efforts. They both were aware that at any moment, any single incident - just one fall, could mean the end of that. They tried their best to not call for more help than I could provide as a neighbour. You could see it in their eyes, the thought of Heather having to go away from their house. But even in that condition, they were courteous, kind and collected in my presence.

     Then it happened again, one evening recently. Heather had fallen down. I went over and helped her on to her bed. She wanted to sleep and not worry any further, I suggested, concerned but naively, that they call for the ambulance or a doctor to check her over immediately. They said they would, if needed, but would wait to see if it is bad and that now she wanted to sleep. I left them.

     The next day, she was in pain and Heather had to see a doctor. She was given some medication, was on it for a few days, but it did not help much. The pain was too much. Even going through an X-ray machine is difficult for her in her frail condition and bent frame. She was finally moved to the hospital. She is not coming back. It is the passing of another stage in the life of Heather and Col. Col feels bad for not being able to take care of her sufficiently at home. He is still taking care of himself, the house, the garden and accomplishing so much, slowly hobbling around, but with a spirit of an iron man. It is just that the body is frail. He visits Heather at the hospital occasionally.

     As he was slowly walking up the hospital ramp leaning on his walker and straining a bit, he looked at me with a smile and said, “Kannan, this is what old age does to one. I suppose I should be thankful to have made it this far, but it’s terrible, I hope no one has to go through this.”

     I know what he means and I too wish it were different, that we all lived fit and strong until we are done, but then would we want or think it is time to go? What is the alternative really to living to a ripe old age and struggling with failing health and strength? Die younger? And would I or anyone want that?

     At his age, I would be happy to be able to do the things Col does today, but I have not lived his age. I suppose it varies with each of us. I am however moved and inspired by this couple – they have shown the graceful way to accept one of the hardest things in life – separation from a loved one by fate.

The 92 year Old Lawn Mower

How old is the mower?

     No, it is not the machine mowing the lawn I am talking about, it is the person. I am sure most people would not have had the honour or privilege of having their lawn mowed by a nonagenarian - one who can barely walk without a walker. I am sure none of us would seek such an honour. However, when it happens, one can only watch and feel some awe.

     It was last weekend. My kids had woken up late and had a lazy breakfast one after another, each wanting something different. I too had slept-in late and was busy around the kitchen and as the kids played and watched TV, I heard a lawn mower start up and as is often the case, it runs along and we tune ourselves out of it. This one seemed to be getting unusually loud, I thought it would go quieter in a while, but it kept on and it was getting difficult for my son to listen to the TV so he cranked the volume louder. I shouted to my daughter to pull down the blinds hoping that it would help just a little bit. It did not. We just continued – me in the kitchen and the kids in the living room. I was done in a bit and came to lie down on the couch in the living room. The mower noise was really loud and from the movement of the mower I could sense it being really close! I pulled the blinds up and looked to see my ninety-two year old neighbour Col on his ride-on mower on my lawn. He had driven over across the street and started to mow my lawn – which had shown signs of recent growth – thankfully winter slows the growth rate down, but we have good moisture and sunshine.

     I saw he had cut a fair bit on all the major areas and was already around the back of the house. I went out and he just waved to me and continued. When he stopped I asked him, “Why Col? You should not have and need not have!”

     He just smiled and said, “Aw, you helped me with my mower yesterday and I thought I would do it. I could do it today. But I cannot make a habit of it.”

     Of course, he will not make a habit of it and I’ll not allow him to do it. It’s the creed by which Col lives. He calls it ‘fair play’.  Thanks Col.

     I am simply moved by the rare gift and experience – to witness the heights that human spirit can scale.

The 92 year old lawn mower

Heather Labelled The Containers...

     Col invited me to afternoon tea one day. We had scones that his nephew had brought over. Good homemade stuff, frozen until ready to use. We warmed a few in the oven and had them with butter and jam alongside a cup of warm tea this cold winter afternoon. It had been frosty, bitingly cold and foggy this morning. Col had his fireplace going and his house was warm. He hobbled around slowly but was determined to be a good host. He himself cut the warm scones, applied the butter and jam, and made us a cup of tea, slowly and seemingly painfully with his arthritic fingers. He had purchased an electric can opener as it was getting too difficult with the manual ones. As we ate, we chatted about our lives.

     Col said that he had learned to cook more stuff recently since Heather passed away. Almost till the very end of her life, Heather was the one who had cooked their meals with variety and attention to detail. Col was capable of survival cooking and a few recipes, but Heather ruled the domain of the kitchen while he did all the work outside in the garden and inside the house, fixing things and keeping everything in good condition.

     Col mentioned that while many of his family came by and dropped off food for him to use, he was trying to use what he already had. There were things in lower shelves, that he has difficulty bending, reaching and getting up or straightening up again. He just needed to organise and arrange them conveniently.

     “Heather could not do very much in her last days,” he said, his eyes showing he was seeing with his mind’s eye, “She labelled the containers and bottles only recently. That was not how she kept things all these years when she ran the kitchen. She knew where everything was. I guess she felt she did not have much time left, she could not herself move and re-arrange it properly. She just managed to label them all so that I could know what was where and use it! She did it for ME!”

An expression of fond appreciation came over his face. We drank the tea, thanking Heather silently for one of her last acts of service. It still lives and helps Col.

     

Ray Steyger - from Alexandra

Ray Steyger's Hair Razing Tale

Ray Steyger's face as seen after 9 years

Photo Courtesy of Jo McCullogh

     There is something about hair – as long as one has it, one can be picky and fussy about its colour, texture, shape and want the very best of it. Though I never bothered to pamper my hair throughout my younger years, I was a bit taken aback when I saw the first swirl of grey coming across the top of my forelocks in my late thirties. Soon, within 2-3 years, the black hairs were in the minority. My son who is the older of my children still has memories of me with dark hair in the majority. My daughter who is about 4 years younger can barely remember me without mostly silver hair and looks at older pictures with a bit of surprise. But when one starts to lose the density of hair from the crown unrelentingly and irreversibly one develops a change in attitude. Now I’d say, “Hey God, give me natural hair – any colour – even fluorescent green, orange or purple is fine if it still naturally stays on top of the head.” However, I refuse to dye.

     Sadly, I accept the inevitable – I look at my old pictures chronologically and I could see that after each significant milestone - bachelor’s degree, first job, marriage, master’s degree, second job, first child, second child - there was a marked receding of the hairline, but that was still gradual and not too dramatic until I hit forty. Then the colour, density and the boundary lines changed dramatically at high speed. It also then appears that the hair not only disappears from the northern hemisphere of the head, it also tends to migrate to the southern hemisphere of the head to unwanted locations like the ears, ear lobes, nose and generally becomes thicker in density around the face. It in fact seems to grow closer towards the eyes on the cheeks. Now, I just don’t worry too much, let it grow and mow it down once in a while when I find the time in warmer months.

     I noticed around town though, there is something about hair in the culture. A lot of men in the country let their hair down literally, let it go, let it grow and are not affected socially by this as their city counterparts apparently are.  They are just known and accepted for how they are and their hairstyle or hair-state becomes a landmark or signature to identify them in conversation, if you forget their names.

     Come November, something interesting happens here in Australia and it has even more interesting sidelights in a country town like Alexandra. November is sometimes called “Mo-vember” and it is the month when many will grow a fancy ‘Mo’ (Australian slang for a ‘Moustache’) and shave it off around the end of the month to have fun, raise awareness and money for men’s health, in particular prostate cancer. The first patron of this ‘Movember’ event was Merv Hughes, a well-known Australian cricketer who had a huge moustache. I owe thanks to John Rogers, my neighbour and friend for some authentic information on this. As he says and I too have noted, Australians have a tradition of thinking up unusual and entertaining ways and competitions to raise money for good causes – severe, almost scalping haircuts and unusual colouring of hair are some of the hairy approaches, originally starting with shaving of the heads and called “Shave for a cure” to support cancer research. Efforts of other varieties sound intriguing - someone apparently even tried to cross an Australian desert in a canoe. I shall investigate the other types of fund-raisers and write about them later.

     At other times, many volunteer to have their hair mowed publicly for a good cause.  People who volunteer to get their head or beard shaved will ask others to simply pledge and donate some money to a good cause, to have the pleasure/privilege of cutting or watch their hair being cut – usually simply by running an electric clipper. The more famous or popular the volunteer, the more money they are likely to raise since more want to support them in this. It is a festive thing, in public. People bring along their kids, in the middle of the town’s main street. People will buy pins, flowers, sausages etc. to raise money for all types of charitable causes while watching the hair fall.

     I find it touching that many men and women will sign up to let go of their lovely locks and lovely looks to raise money or to just show support for and solidarity with a friend or colleague who is undergoing chemotherapy and lose their own hair in sympathy. Then there are all kinds of caps, bandanas and things that go to cover the shaved head. It is quite easy to see that people that take pride in being well-groomed and looking good can also easily let go of that image to show they really value the person and spirit inside and that looks are only skin deep.

     Around this Easter, there were a heap of such close shaves and haircuts in Alexandra. I sometimes wish I could do this kind of haircut just once a year if only my hair grew at a much slower pace and save a fair bit on regular haircuts which are fairly pricey!

     Anyway, this year we had a much publicised and long awaited hair razing of one individual who had a growth on his face that was ten years in the making - all given up and gone in a flash this year to raise money for Leukemia and the local junior football/netball club. He is a retired policeman who lives nearby, is the president of the local Footy club and a tireless volunteer. I met him two years ago and his face has looked much the same all the time I have known him – it appears to me that after the first few years, the hair growth rate becomes small enough that it does not change much in a couple of years. This man was one for whom his beard was a signature. When I had to pay the club dues the first time, my son’s coach asked me to pay it to Ray. When I told him I did not know Ray, he asked me to give the money to the person I see with the biggest beard within the next half hour or so. And sure enough when I saw a well-built man with the biggest beard, waited for some more time to see if I could find a bigger one, and then walked up to him – I had got the right man. He always has a quiet, dignified and calm air and a kind voice. He has a wicked sense of humour that belies the tone of his voice. There was almost like a countdown in a billboard on the main street announcing Ray’s impeding close shave and it was much awaited to see what he really looked like, to those who knew him for less than about nine years.

     Now that his foliage is gone, I can see the real Ray and so have many locals for the first time. It is only his voice that reminds us that he is the same person; otherwise I would not have recognised him on the street!

     This reminds of a part of the Indian culture where I come from, every year people will flock to a few famous temples in India and ritually ‘sacrifice’ their hair. Many will go on a pilgrimage with their long hair and unshaven face in special attire that makes this obvious. Many of them will have grown their hair specifically for months, some will have made vows to offer their hair in return for God’s intervention in helping a loved one overcome an illness or exam or obtain a job or promotion or success in business. Little children, often without their own consent will be taken for a clean shave of the head as part of tradition. I think the tradition there too, comes from the spiritual angle of clearly stating by our actions that physical beauty, while admired, can easily be let go and is a sign of having let go of ego.

     Here in the western world, what I see is truly a whisker above because – it is not only religious or pious people who do this, just about anyone does it without any religious connotation. Even more, what moves me is this - most give up their hair for people who are not related to them, for strangers, in a spirit of pure giving, with nothing expected in return for them. Even the baldies give, by pledging money for others who give up their crowning glory!

     So, I say this (rightly, I should have my head shaved for a cause, put on a hat and then say this) to Ray and all those who gave their hair away, “Hats-off, to y’all!”

Dick Nicholls - from Alexandra

Dick Nicholls

Dick Nicholls in tool heaven

     One day Ernie Hunt, my woodworker friend suggested I go and meet a person in town. Knowing I am writing a book on Alex, he said it would likely be of some interest to write about this man and his collection of tools which is legendary among people in the know. I was given a name, a number and an address. I called, made an appointment and went over. I took my little daughter along just to keep her entertained, not sure if she would enjoy spending an hour or so looking at old tools and old folk. We were greeted by a friendly lady. Then a smiling man with a twinkle in his eye came, said ‘Hello’ and took us around to show his garage. My daughter had a great time. She was engrossed in everything she saw and totally at ease with our friendly guide who treated her with such kindness and respect. I was just blown away by what I saw.

     Move over Tim Allen, the real tool man is Dick Nicholls. He has a garage and a tool shed to the side, hidden from the street outside. Both are chock-full of a great variety of stuff.   Dick will usually show you something and ask, “What do you think this is? What do you think this was used for?” It’s a bit like what you see in those TV shows featuring old antiques and treasures that people bring up for evaluation.

     Many of us will be left scratching our heads, what does this thing do? How does it work?

     The older you are, the better your chances of answering some of it right – you may have seen it used or used it yourself. Of course, if you are too old and have lost your memory, then forget it! But many things used by humans and long since gone out of use or out-of-fashion will be found in good condition, well maintained, ready to be used or to demonstrate.

     Dick Nicholls is a true collector of tools and other stuff.  He does not simply collect them, he gets them to perfect working order, uses them as well. There is a perceptible affection he has for each item, a story behind it and an appreciation of its value. One could spend hours, weeks and months in his shed just trying out or looking at each thing just once. Even more fun is listening to him explain things and tell their stories. From machine tool bits to little bottles, scoops, to all things metal, wood and glass. You can start to appreciate the mechanical genius of man long before the plastics, synthetics and electronics came along. It is fascinating to see what all tools humans have made, to make life easier and what at different times were considered good to own. It is a relatively brief representation of the distinguishing marks of our human civilization itself. No other animal can make this many tools.

     At some point in time, people started to throw away old stuff, not repair or fix them. Or there were newer, fancier tools or gadgets and old tools and gadgets were no longer needed. Dick is one of the rare ones who collects those and understands their use and gives them a welcome new home. This is tool heaven where the good tools go after their time. Dick also reclaims the souls of some of the less fortunate tools and keeps them there.

     Just cataloguing each item and its use will give us a brief but rich insight into our history- sounds like a great idea for a few school projects!!

     Dick himself is a descendant of English immigrants. He has worked at farms mostly around this area. He does great woodwork at home and told me about the clever design of a ‘Lazy Susan’, something I started to work on but, being a ‘Lazy Kannan,’ it is taking me a long time. For those that don’t know - a “Lazy Susan” is a turntable kind of thing set in the middle of a dining table to put different dishes of a meal on.  People can serve different dishes by themselves by simply spinning it.

Ernie Hunt - from The Eildon And District Woodworkers Guild

Ernie Hunt

Ernie (in the middle)

     Ernie Hunt used to be a cabinet maker. He trained many apprentices and handed over his business to one of them. He and George, who works at the local timber mill, heard I was setting up my garage and starting to learn woodturning. They quietly started to make thick planks and legs for a workbench and delivered it to my door one day. These older men with such energy! Ernie, usually with a trenchant but kind humour, always challenges us to try and challenge ourselves and not take the easy way out. He patiently taught all the skills needed to make a good bowl and was rightly disappointed when I chickened out and made one with hardly any curve!

    Some of the things he makes are really fantastic 3-dimensional challenges that will puzzle any student of mathematics and engineering, and make them wonder how to make the darned thing! For many, the tools used must themselves be made first and take longer than the final item. When you hold a stunning multi-level nested thing one within the other, all done to fine detail, it’s easy to get lost in the beauty of it and forget the mechanical and personal skill challenge that it poses. I have seen modern wooden versions of old Indian carvings, award winning miniatures and more. Students of woodworking, math and engineering should meet Ernie and get him to set them a task.

Max May - from The Eildon And District Woodworkers Guild

Max May

Max May, Clarrie Glass

     One of the sharpest tools in the Woodworkers’ Guild shed is Max May. He has a thing about tools. In fact, he is so sharp that he can make a tool out of almost anything – things that people throw out – old blunt screw drivers, old drill parts, a nail or a thimble. He is a part of a group that designs and makes up new tools in addition to fashioning old ones. Our guild has a reputation for making their own tools for use and they are the bestsellers in shows and gatherings.  Max is also an expert on anything that he does and he can do almost anything. His systematic lectures on processes from French polishing to using routers are great. He used to be a boat builder near Lake Eildon that is about 25km away from Alex. He taught me one of the nifty little tricks they use to make wooden boat joins naturally waterproof. It’s simple and simply clever. Along the length of where one plank of wood joins the other, in the middle of the ridge, a flat screw driver or some flat edge is hammered in slightly. The wood fibres compress under the metal edge and form a groove. Then the wooden edge is planed down flat to just the level of the lowest part of the groove. This is done on both wooden edges that meet. They are then joined. When the wood hits water, the compressed fibres try to expand and form a watertight seal, pushing against each other in the middle!

     Max will tell you the best of whatever he knows, in a slow, calm voice. His knowledge is wide ranging – colours, woods, tools and along with Clarrie and Ernie, forms a living encyclopaedia.  Max’s works have an elegance about them that is hard to achieve.

John Zerafa - from The Eildon District Woodworkers Guild

The Maltese Saint John

Reg and St. John

      John Zerafa was born in Libya of Maltese parents and their family escaped via Italy to immigrate to Australia, when John was a young boy of ten, on the ship S.S. Sydney in 1960. He used to work for Australia Post and definitely is there, rain or shine or hail and on time if he says he will be there. Always with a quiet friendly smile, he is seen regularly volunteering in the bookstore on the main street on Mondays, driving a Red Cross bus, delivering stuff  to help old and disabled people in town, ever ready to help anyone that he comes across that needs help. He does it all freely without expecting or taking anything in return. I could not have done some of the toughest wood work around my house without him around. He quietly lives his philosophy of life in service to others. He makes the best coffee in the world, no I really mean it, the best ever – forget Starbucks! He tells of how he grew up with coffee in his house, his mom made it the traditional way and he learned from her. When he stopped having as much of his traditional coffee at his work, he had interesting withdrawal symptoms. You can well understand it after tasting a cup of his best one.

     John has raised three children and is one of my heroes as a father, right alongside my own. A great listener and an understanding spirit, John lives at the edge of the town. His property has paddocks bordering a creek. John, too, knows a great many things, but is too modest to tell unless asked. If you ever want to buy some of the finest pottery in the world, in the neighbourhood of the Isle of Skye in Scotland, just let John know. His daughter, who he is quietly chuffed about, is an internationally renowned potter there.

     Some people are like rocks – people have a natural tendency to lean on them for support. John and Clarrie have been like that for more than just me.

Clarrie Glass - from Eildon And District Woodworker’s Guild

The Santa Who Crafts Wooden Angels

     Clarrie Glass belongs to a  guild I discovered by accident and joined, in which I, at 48, am a baby, youngster. Yes, there are a few much younger than I, but mostly the most active members are the older ones. This group has so many skilled, kindly, giving, sharing people that I have benefitted from, I cannot be thankful enough. There are so many here to meet and know. Let me introduce you to Santa and his helpers!

Max and Santa Clarrie

     Many places in the world claim to have Santa living amongst them. I once even lived north of a place called North Pole in Alaska which has some claim to be the bearded Saint’s real home. But I can tell you, we have one right here. He is an ex-navy man for whom Santa can play the double after he goes through military training boot camp. No, he does not have an outrageous paunch. This Santa is fit. He is of Scottish descent and a fraction Aboriginal, so he can actually make boomerangs. He will tell you in a soft booming voice that he was trained to kill, and you cannot believe he would want to hurt a fly. There is a twinkle to his eyes and one can easily feel there is something spiritual, not religious about him. He once showed me a poem about his hero, a person who wanted to be on a list of persons who loved their fellow men and ended up on the top of the list of men who loved God.  This is Santa living under the name of Clarrie Glass.

     Mrs Santa (Dorothy) does wood work too - great pyrography, miniatures, painting in wood and is kindness itself in human form. Ever with a smile and ever ready to help, they work together as well.

     He lives on one side of the Maroondah Highway in Taggerty, with a great view of the Cathedral Mountain on one side and the Black Range on the other. He lost some good friends in the big bushfires of 2009 that are well known around the world.  Clarrie’s son was fighting the fires and Clarrie managed to escape with his life leaving his home behind.  His property burned out partly, revealing some miracles. A higher power made sure Clarrie’s huge workshop with wonders of wood survived despite being surrounded by one of the hottest fires in history. Many of the buildings that escaped burning seem miracles. To me it seems obvious, God reckoned it would be too much trouble to get someone else make another huge double nested ball bearing out of wood if the one Clarrie made burned down. And he made sure Clarrie’s house survived so he could return soon.

     Clarrie had some other miracles happen around him - he fell back onto a trailer or something, knocked himself out and hurt his shoulder bad and almost, no - actually died and came back to life.  I believe he had a communication with God – his time was not up yet and he was sent back to make two hundred of those wonderful wooden angels Clarrie and his helpers donate as a gift to speakers at a local forum. I have one of those precious angels he gave me, to give my own precious little angel, my daughter for her birthday. He would not accept money for it and asked me to just pass it forward, if I want to give something in return.

     I love to see Clarrie make his angels, but I have to tell him this – “Clarrie, please take a long, long break after you make the 199th angel! And work on the 200th one real, real slow…” He makes beautiful pens and other articles and has some for sale, BUT, you better not ask him for any angels, he will make them if you ask and I don’t want him to make more than absolutely necessary as he sees them!!

     I once mentioned to Clarrie, I had a piece of snakewood, the hardest wood in the world, and immediately he says, you know you’ve got to drill it in little steps and pull out the drill, not continuously, to let the heat dissipate, else it will explode or ruin the wood.  He is a great teacher and has a thousand tips ever ready.

     His workshop is a treat to visit and is home to many lucky pieces of wood.

Rex, Bagpipes And The Blessing Of The Tartan

Rex Tate

Photo Courtesy of Lynnda Heard, North-By-NorthEast Magazine

     Rex is a member of the local RSL (Returned and Services League), an organisation that supports returned war veterans and serving members of the armed services. Rex is an ex-bomber pilot with the airforce and fought in WW II in Europe around Italy. He was a young twenty year old then and while based in Scotland, met a young Scottish girl named Sylvia, from Portsoy, during a barn dance. He had apparently caught her attention with his dancing, jumping around like a kangaroo! She invited him home for dinner and he met her parents. They were in love and got engaged during the war. At the end of the war, her whole village came to farewell her in style as she moved to Australia, sailing on a ship and having arrived, married Rex. They moved to Alexandra after sometime and spent a long time here, raising their children.

     I met Rex at a gathering in the local library. We chatted and hit it off. Rex is enthusiastic about Alexandra. He is a founding member of the historical society and yet looks to the future and supports new ideas, even as he helps preserve the best of the past. At his age, he walks around like a man twenty years younger, he seems to want to do, and give as much as he can. He has worked with Aborigines and truly respects them in a way that I have seen in few. He talks to me about Demming – the American who is regarded highly in Japan for his understanding of quality, and encourages me in every dream or idea I come up with, to do something concrete. He wants to work with me to show our school kids how they can learn and practice the spirit of the ANZACs in the way they do their team projects in science!

     I did not know then that Rex’s wife was ill. I had never met her. Later, when I ran into Rex one day, he mentioned that Sylvia had passed away a few days ago. They had had about sixty years together. Rex invited me to attend a memorial service they held for Sylvia with a traditional Scottish theme – playing of the bagpipes and blessing of the tartan cloth. Sylvia still retained her connection to her home town all these years. Her family and friends from there sent condolences, flowers. They read poems in a Scottish dialect, and told a moving and cheerful story of Sylvia’s life. Returning the same generosity of spirit, Rex’s family has planned to send Sylvia’s remains back to Scotland. Her spirit lives both here in Australia and in her home town, on the other side of the world. I guess that is the thing - a spirit and love are not bound by distances. Her life story has been made into a play on war brides by her daughter and is staged around Australia.

     The service itself was held in a local church hall. Everyone wore a piece of Tartan. Rex told me how the tradition came to be – the blessing of the tartan. The Scots under English rule were once forbidden from speaking their dialect and wearing their traditional tartan cloth, as they represented their desire for their own freedom. The tartan is traditionally a woven woollen cloth with crisscrossing horizontal and vertical patterns that the Scots make their traditional dresses out of. The only place and way they would get around this restriction was wearing the tartan under their church clothes or carrying a piece of it, hidden, and during church prayers, they would call upon God to bless the tartan. In closed church meetings they could speak a bit in their own dialect as well.

     The bagpipes were something else! It is spectacular to hear them up close and see someone play them in full Scottish dress. The sound of the pipes is haunting and gets into your soul, deep inside. To me it brought back instant memories of the “Nadaswaram” that I hear played in South India. The two instruments may look different, but there is something about the sounds of both - they seem to have seeped into our genes over the centuries and you don’t realise it until it suddenly awakens the spirit and a certain mood in you. The sounds just transport you back in time and space, you feel, you know you belong to a culture where this sound comes from. These are surely music and sounds of the soul. I left the service with Rex’s ribbon of tartan that he gave me to give my daughter - she loved it! I walked away from the service feeling strangely familiar with a culture different to mine - beneath all the outside trappings we are all similar. We can celebrate the good life of a person even as we mourn them, it is the only good and logical end to all of us – we wish!