toast for tea

Okay – I’ll admit it. I was a die-hard Monkees fan. But I couldn’t help it. Demographics. I was just the right age to be in the target audience. I had no defences against the monster marketing machine that churned out ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ and ‘I’m a Believer’. Oh yes, I was a believer! And as for that wacky television show – I was a sitting duck. Sitting on the couch watching the box waiting for my mum to come home from work. What else was there to do? I mean, I was putty. Fresh off the boat after braving adventure and the high seas with the Famous Five and Secret Seven , I was looking for adventure of the fourteen-year-old kind. Romance. So I fell immediately and madly in love with Peter Tork – on account of the way his golden locks swished across his face as he pummelled the keyboard or bass guitar. Every Saturday I’d scan the racks at the local newsagent for Teen Scene magazine and its cousin publications for updates on my favourite four. Monkee business was all I was...

When I first notice the sound I dismiss it as somebody’s ringtone. There are five of us in the house – all with smart phones. Or maybe someone’s found an old radio amongst all the curios that adorn this borrowed accommodation of ours. Perhaps someone’s on Youtube. It’s just before dinnertime after one of a succession of full days taken up with seeing the sights of the national capital. Everyone is scattered around the house enjoying some down-time. It’s not until someone calls out, ‘Is that a flute?’ that in the quiet, as we all stop what we’re doing, I allow myself to focus on the sound. Some of us go outside to listen and are rewarded by hearing the most beautiful lilting melody as it carries over the train tracks from somewhere beyond the surrounding paddocks. Bagpipes. We listen, incredulous and bemused. Curiosity satisfied, everyone else returns to their individual activities. I linger outside and soak up the sounds. Set against a backdrop of the calls of sulphur-crested coc...

Recently I snuck away on my own for a deliciously solitary four days in Echuca, where I lived and taught in the eighties for six years. The main objective was to do research for a personal narrative travel article on the Murray River. I'm still working on the words, but here are some pics to go on with ...