Richie Benaud and Australiana
Without Prejudice
Richie Benaud died yesterday. I know of old that slight cramping in my stomach when the announcer on the radio is about to dish out bad news. I was immediately a little shocked, a little saddened. I had no idea he was ill. But as soon as I heard his age I knew he had had a good innings in life, that iconic voice, so often imitated, now gone forever. They said he died peacefully in his sleep and isn't that what we would all love ?
I can remember dancing in a torrential downpour at Hervey Bay on New Years Eve the Summer that the tape came out by Austen Tayshus with the funniest imitation of Richie Benaud I had ever heard. The ever polite gentleman, Richie, being imitated saying things like,
" Just another fucking hot day in Calcutta "
the comedian getting the nasal twang just right. We laughed until we cried back in the Frosts ranch style home that New Years Eve. Tears streaming down our face as the tape rolled on. The weight lifter with the Jatz cracker hanging out, who was supposed to be a female, and the pommel horse vaulter crashing into it and being interviewed as he wheezed through bruised ribs. Golden moments of comedy.
Richie an Australian Icon of sport. So loved. So very Australian.
It's strange as I have been collecting Australiana all week. My own Australian icons of garden and home. Memorabilia of other decades. The sixties, seventies, and even better, the thirties, forties and fifties.
I have a Pink Flamingo of tin to stand one legged when I finish restoring her. Not that she needs a lot of tender loving care. She is unremarkably undamaged. Her pink petals of metal, layer after layer are still pristine, stood in a garden as she must have been for the last forty, fifty years.
Her pink colour is a little faded, but no matter, Estapol will take care of that. She is so kitchy I can't help but fall in love with her a little.
Apart from that over the last year I would have collected, moved, restored about three pallets of Australiana. And now I long for more space. My unit is crowded out. I need more room, more room, more room.
And someone to help.
Tired of doing it all by myself. Just that other hand to hold something while I nail. Hand me a coffee as I toil. Give me perspective, I can't know everything. And someone for me to call and say,
" Bring home some milk, a take out and your good self. "
And when he arrives he can massage my aching shoulders.
I had to stop Thursday night as my hands were so sore, my gardening clothes filthy. If I saw another cockroach or spider in the piles of detritus people leave behind I was ready to literally scream. But I had to somehow finish it all, strewn around the backyard as it was. My Australiana.
And yet it is so rewarding.
A lot of it will belong to my grandchildren, one day. Some I will sell so I can improve the garden for the grandkids. They love it. The Hills Swing set I rescued from from the jaws of the Rubbish Recyclers. I could not imagine that being crushed and going to land fill. Nor the Mail Box of black and gold, that will no longer be necessary by the time the Grandkids are grown. Letters being replaced by Emails. Looks fab in a retro garden, however.
I have to have moved at least three tonnes of stuff in the last 12 months. Not just the Australiana but three households of deceased ladies.
With not much help.
No bloody wonder my hands, back, shoulder and arms ache when I go to bed. And the next day it starts all over again.
I have skip climbed. Open booted some items as they were just around the corner and I am a larrikin at heart. No one even turned a hair at me. Sorted through filfth beyond imagining as perfumes, jewellery, pots and pans lie amongst food scaps. People throw away the most amazing things. Brand new coffee machines, gorgeous old dishes and teapots.
Mainly the treasures are in the deceased old peoples stuff. The surviving children throw away everything, considering it " old rubbish " and I come along and grab it and scurry away like a thief in the night with it. Not believing my luck.
I have beautiful old tools, stunning garden implements, precious perfumes from bygone eras, still perfect.
But I need more room. I have condensed as much as I can. I need a big warm shed, smelling of new tin and timber. Lined with timber shelves displaying my wares. I could open a shop with all the stuff I have. I have two heaters, one a reproduction and one the old kerosene or parrafin heater we used up till the seventies. Inside I would be in seventh Heaven. Surrounded by old memories and comforting nostalgic pieces.
Vale Richie Benaud. Gone but not forgotten .
Richie Benaud died yesterday. I know of old that slight cramping in my stomach when the announcer on the radio is about to dish out bad news. I was immediately a little shocked, a little saddened. I had no idea he was ill. But as soon as I heard his age I knew he had had a good innings in life, that iconic voice, so often imitated, now gone forever. They said he died peacefully in his sleep and isn't that what we would all love ?
I can remember dancing in a torrential downpour at Hervey Bay on New Years Eve the Summer that the tape came out by Austen Tayshus with the funniest imitation of Richie Benaud I had ever heard. The ever polite gentleman, Richie, being imitated saying things like,
" Just another fucking hot day in Calcutta "
the comedian getting the nasal twang just right. We laughed until we cried back in the Frosts ranch style home that New Years Eve. Tears streaming down our face as the tape rolled on. The weight lifter with the Jatz cracker hanging out, who was supposed to be a female, and the pommel horse vaulter crashing into it and being interviewed as he wheezed through bruised ribs. Golden moments of comedy.
Richie an Australian Icon of sport. So loved. So very Australian.
It's strange as I have been collecting Australiana all week. My own Australian icons of garden and home. Memorabilia of other decades. The sixties, seventies, and even better, the thirties, forties and fifties.
I have a Pink Flamingo of tin to stand one legged when I finish restoring her. Not that she needs a lot of tender loving care. She is unremarkably undamaged. Her pink petals of metal, layer after layer are still pristine, stood in a garden as she must have been for the last forty, fifty years.
Her pink colour is a little faded, but no matter, Estapol will take care of that. She is so kitchy I can't help but fall in love with her a little.
Apart from that over the last year I would have collected, moved, restored about three pallets of Australiana. And now I long for more space. My unit is crowded out. I need more room, more room, more room.
And someone to help.
Tired of doing it all by myself. Just that other hand to hold something while I nail. Hand me a coffee as I toil. Give me perspective, I can't know everything. And someone for me to call and say,
" Bring home some milk, a take out and your good self. "
And when he arrives he can massage my aching shoulders.
I had to stop Thursday night as my hands were so sore, my gardening clothes filthy. If I saw another cockroach or spider in the piles of detritus people leave behind I was ready to literally scream. But I had to somehow finish it all, strewn around the backyard as it was. My Australiana.
And yet it is so rewarding.
A lot of it will belong to my grandchildren, one day. Some I will sell so I can improve the garden for the grandkids. They love it. The Hills Swing set I rescued from from the jaws of the Rubbish Recyclers. I could not imagine that being crushed and going to land fill. Nor the Mail Box of black and gold, that will no longer be necessary by the time the Grandkids are grown. Letters being replaced by Emails. Looks fab in a retro garden, however.
I have to have moved at least three tonnes of stuff in the last 12 months. Not just the Australiana but three households of deceased ladies.
With not much help.
No bloody wonder my hands, back, shoulder and arms ache when I go to bed. And the next day it starts all over again.
I have skip climbed. Open booted some items as they were just around the corner and I am a larrikin at heart. No one even turned a hair at me. Sorted through filfth beyond imagining as perfumes, jewellery, pots and pans lie amongst food scaps. People throw away the most amazing things. Brand new coffee machines, gorgeous old dishes and teapots.
Mainly the treasures are in the deceased old peoples stuff. The surviving children throw away everything, considering it " old rubbish " and I come along and grab it and scurry away like a thief in the night with it. Not believing my luck.
I have beautiful old tools, stunning garden implements, precious perfumes from bygone eras, still perfect.
But I need more room. I have condensed as much as I can. I need a big warm shed, smelling of new tin and timber. Lined with timber shelves displaying my wares. I could open a shop with all the stuff I have. I have two heaters, one a reproduction and one the old kerosene or parrafin heater we used up till the seventies. Inside I would be in seventh Heaven. Surrounded by old memories and comforting nostalgic pieces.
Vale Richie Benaud. Gone but not forgotten .
