Posts Tagged ‘shotgun’

The mysterious disappearance of Flies.

December 9, 2016

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Are the flies being courteous? Just when many of us decided to bunker down underground to avoid flies, they have now just as suddenly gone. Not a fly to be seen. I looked underneath the budding Hydrangeas. Apart from lounging around our worm-farm, this used to be their most favourite spot to congregate, plan their next course of action. Only this morning I still noticed a large black one, head down, still spinning around maniacally on the tiled sitting-room floor. He was obviously in their species well known and peculiar death-rite so common in the Australian fly.

There is only so much flies can put up with, not least getting doused with the much feared ‘knock-down’ spray. Forgive me giving the masculine version. I wonder if flies too have multi genders? I would not be surprised. They certainly are heading towards euthanasia. That is for sure. One can tell by the way they line up around my hand held ‘knock down’ weapon. Mortein Fly Spray, the fast loading Adler shotgun of the fly spray. Flies get depressed in Australia. Is it the Turnbull factor?

The real reason for their sudden disappearance goes deeper than love of fly spray or fly-lust for Mrs Euthanasia. We had a great change of weather last night. A Southerly Change. It is the Australia’s version of manna from heaven during relentless heat waves. Just when all hope is gone, despair seeped in, and all energy sapped by heat, that salvation is at hand; The Southerly Change. People regain the spring in their steps, tentative shopping at Aldi gets renewed, some even walk around at random, fly-sprays put back in the cupboard. Can you believe it?

There was Carol singing at our local Bradman Cricket Park. At the end of the singing they promised to let off fire-works. What fireworks have to do with Christmas escapes me. Perhaps a lure for people to turn up! In any case, it was very loud, and Milo, our Jack Russell went berserk. I don’t know what he thought of it all. On one hand he wanted to protect us but on the other hand he was so scared. He ran inside cowering near our feet. Poor thing, so brave. The last thing any Jack Russell needs, is to be thought of as being afraid.

An hour later while I was listlessly watching some incomprehensible movie on TV, named ‘Doctor Foster,’ it was thankfully interrupted by ‘no signal.’ The Southerly Change came about. Within minutes the remaining flies went underground. What is the secret of the flies withdrawal? Can someone give an explanation?

After waking this morning, watching the spinning of the last of the flies, we ventured to go outside again. A miracle, a miracle. Not a single fly! Where and why have they now gone? Perhaps it is wise not to contemplate on those sort of minor issues. Surely, the Christmas spirit should exclude ruminating endlessly about the plight of flies. They have a right to live and I am sure fulfil some kind of need the same as other creatures. Theirs must be of some benefit to mankind, even if just to clean up the mess of others. Many years ago, I heard that for Australia to get rid of flies we should all be eagerly breeding dung beetles. Apparently, they consume dung like no one else. Does anyone know where one can buy dung beetles?
They might make a good Christmas present

Frank and own House.

May 18, 2015
Life in the garage with mother looking on. My Lambretta scooter with sister Dora.

Life in the garage with mother looking on. My Lambretta scooter with sister Dora.

With so much happening despite the dramas, the joys, and many tearful tribulations, life in the garage assumed some normality, even became routine. Things fell into place. We got a pet dog and chickens were bought at the markets in Sydney at 6 weeks of age. They all turned into roosters. Dad could not eat chickens from the shop let alone our own roosters. The roosters probably killed each other or possibly got killed by that dog in the photo. I think my brother John started breeding his pigeons after the debacle of the fighting roosters.  We all had our place and those who worked kept surrendering earnings to our chief accountant who was now targeting the next objective; the building of our own home. After two years of some very tight turning and twisting in the crowded garage our house was built and we moved in. It was a glorious day. My mother’s saving and scrimping were legendary amongst  immigrant’s communities. She used to scrape the butter from the paper, shake the tomato sauce bottle, and empty the last smidgen of jam, that I have yet to see repeated anywhere in the world. And I have seen some scrapings! She sewed, patched, and knitted with not a minute to waste. If it was loose not nailed down, mother made it either into a meal or into garments or something useful, even pan holders. It was no wonder we could get the house built after just two years in the garage.

The photo above shows me on my scooter just before taking a round trip Sydney to Melbourne through the Snowy Mountains. It would be a trip of well over two thousand kilometres. I packed enough clothing, a small tent and some cooking utensils, including I suppose, a fork and knife. I went with a Dutch friend who had a Vespa. Vespa were considered a bit more upmarket. During that period I became part of a scooter club that met fortnightly at an ambulance-hall in Parramatta. My friend took a complete suit with him. He knew a girl from the Migrant boat that lived near Melbourne!  He planned to visit her. I did not know any girls but was keen on them from a distance anyway.

Hand coloured etching

Hand coloured etching

The trouble with Frank might well have been one reason for this trip. I wanted to get away!  It was such a creeping illness. The behaviour did not add up and it must have been such a puzzle. Why would Frank so often behave  bizarre?  He  was his own worst person and even though at times he was sorry for his behaviour, it would not stop and seemed incapable of stopping. My parents hoped that with the move into bigger house, things would get better. We were counselled by my mother to try and accept Frank and include him more. However all of us were younger than Frank. We might have felt sorry, I did, but we also had own friends, own growing up to do. Slowly Frank did become excluded. It was all too strange and upsetting.  I would hear my parents talking into the deep of the night about the problem of Frank. It crept into our lives as nothing before, not even the experiences of migration and the sardine-like condition in our previous fibro garage came close to this problem, let alone understanding the reasons or getting it resolved. It was all getting dark and joy of our own house was slowly leaching away.  It could be tempting to feel that the migration and other traumas effected Frank badly but there were already things with Frank before the immigration from Holland.  I remember Frank was taken out of high-school in Holland to learn a trade with a watchmaker. However, it did not last long…Frank’s behaviour already then was becoming erratic. He would be very obsessive about certain things and not with other more important issues. He was becoming a bit outside of things.

My parents in front of their old house. It was their last visit to Australia.

My parents in front of their old house. It was their last visit to Australia.

After Frank’s run with so many jobs in Australia, almost on a weekly basis, it must have dawned on my parents that Frank had a serious problem. It all came to a head when once again Frank had become violent and thrown a pair of scissors at his brother John. The scissors were sticking out of John’s thigh. My father took the pointy scissors out while Frank escaped through the front door. At the time dad was doing some drying of dishes. Dad followed Frank outside with the dish towel still hanging over his shoulder. Frank was faster but both run up the hill with dad in pursuit. Frank, half way up the hill then ran into someone’s garden and hid himself between the bushes. As dad arrived with tea towel still slung over his shoulder, the owner of the house and his garden came out brandishing a shot gun. Without mucking about or further ado or contemplation of this strange event and Frank hiding in his azaleas, the man pointed his gun at the sky and fired a deafening shot.  This seemed to calm the situation. The police arrived and Frank was taken away. This was the last day in Frank’s life where he would enjoy a normal family life. Of course, ‘normal family life’ is open to question and has endless variations. Nothing is really normal. So much still to come and so many answers for begging.