Saturday, December 13, 2014

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!