Granny's House

Yesterday I found a great vintage children's book in an antique shop.
Tiny Tots Annual from 1960, full of lovely illustrations and only $5.

  


 But the little one titled "Granny's House" caught my eye.

So cute, but the modern Granny isn't quite like the 1960 Granny. For a start, in an effort to break the stereotype old grandma, modern grannies need a cooler title, like Mimsy, Nooni, Jamma or Glammy. The glamorous Grandma is a thing.

 Lots of grannys now are fairly young, as back in the 70's we all tended to get married pretty young. Lots of grannys are still working and desperately trying to amass some super as they tended to take time out from careers to be stay at home mums in the 80's.




Lots of grannys are winning oscars, travelling and buying new furniture for the first time in their lives.



Lots of grannys are old hippies so their grandchildren think they are fantastic and weird.





But not many modern grannys bake apple pies
any more. And lots of grannys, if they do have grey hair, put a splash of hot pink or purple through the front.


Striving to be a good mix of old granny and modern granny is hopefully achievable.

That poem is never going to apply to me, so I've rewritten it.

I love to go to Glammy's house, 

Where all is chaos and not too clean

And Downton Abbey and Midsommer Murders,

In rows are to be seen.

In Glammy's house I don't have to be good,

Cos her houseworks fairly bad

I can run and shout and eat her chocolate,

As long as I don't tell mum and dad.

But Glammy's face is sweet and kind,

I never know what colour her hair will be.

I know about her Tim Tam stash,

When I go there to tea.

Memories. The Star Theatre

I love the facebook pages that feature local historic content. Old photos are shared and people start recalling their memories. The recent posts of the Devonport Star Theatre and recollections have prompted me to put "pen to paper" and record my childhood memories.

The Star was built in 1937, way before my time. It's a stunning example of Art Deco architecture that's sadly been subject to a little bit of commercial misuse and abuse over the years.

My family connection goes back to the start. The Star Theatre Company was floated in 1933 by Rob Hamilton and he and his two brothers, one of whom was my grandfather, worked in the industry as it was pioneered by Rob and grew across the state of Tasmania.

                              Construction in 1937. The beam to support the balcony is backed in.
                               Photo from the Devonport Regional Gallery, Robinson Collection.

My dad began his working career at age fifteen in the Wynyard Theatre and then the Burnie Star Theatre. He moved around the state in the industry until the last decade of the Star's life when he managed the Devonport Star. This was the 60's.

I was born 1961. By the time my earliest memories kick in, the Star had faded just a little.
Even as a child I knew she harked back to a time of glamour and a lifestyle that was gone.

Having a dad who managed a picture theatre was a wonderful perk for a kid. It meant we got to go as often as we wanted, for free, and see a film as many times as we wanted.
We'd turn up with him an hour or so before screening time and as he prepared everything in 'the box' , that's what he called the projection room, my brother, sister and I would spend the time exploring every nook and cranny of the old building. Back then it had a balcony (we Always sat up there) and an upstairs lounge. No one ever used the lounge much anymore, but the huge round mirrors, club lounges, urns of plastic flowers and ashtrays told us that there was once a time when men and women dressed up and socialized in that lounge for a night out. My dad told me that in it's heyday it cost 1/1 pence for a downstairs ticket, 2/4 pence far an upstairs (including entertainment tax) and many people held a permanent Saturday night booking.

I'm not sure of the date this was taken, but this photo is exactly how I remember the lounge. We'd often sit here and wait until the place was opened and patrons would start filing in. Pre filming time he'd put on piped music which filled the cinema as people sat and waited. These were lp records. My favourite was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, I loved it when he played that soundtrack. Soon the usherettes in their smart grey uniforms would turn up for work and they'd personally guide every patron to a seat using their big silver torches if the lights were already dimmed.

 After the film he'd also have to stay for another hour or more to clean up and prepare for the next session. We'd go up to the box and help him by rewinding the huge spools of film by hand, pack them into their metal boxes and lug them downstairs if the screening time was finished. There was more time for exploring the empty theatre. Up another stair case was an old office, never used, but full of old movie posters. Wow, what I'd give to have those now!
Right in the middle of the downstairs lobby was the old ticket sales booth. That was never used either, but we'd open the old split door and sneak in and play in there.

My dad would usually watch the film first, come home and report to us as to whether or not we'd like it. Compared to most kids, I guess we got to see plenty of movies. The stand outs of my memories are Pollyanna, Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, The Great Race, Jason and the Argonauts, Born Free, Mary Poppins, the list goes on. As the decade progressed Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang, the Herbie films, Elvis films and comedies such as What's Up Doc entertained us. My sister and I weren't happy when a western was on. My tastes matured into historic dramas such as Mary Queen of Scots and Nicholas and Alexandra and I distinctly remember having a massive movie start crush on Robert Redford.
We all had to stand up at the beginning of screening to a huge projected image of the Queen accompanied by the National Anthem. This was followed by newsreels and shorts (informative little films on various topics, none of which I remember) and the onset of the consumption of all the lollies we'd bought earlier at either the adjoining theatre shop or the milk bar over the road. If we were lucky, one of the shorts would be a cartoon which pleased the kids greatly.In 1970 the Australian Classification Board was formed and movies started to have ratings. I remember when A Clockwork Orange was released in 1971 being extremely put out that my dad would not let me see it. It had this new thing called an "R" rating. I put the poster up in my room, listened to the soundtrack and lamented the unfairness.

By the early 70's, Star Theatres were taken over by Cinema One and my dad left the old family business. The balcony was pulled down and the interior pretty well gutted. The gorgeous art deco plaster worked walls were covered by hundreds of metres of burnt orange and brown curtaining and the ceiling plaster painted black. Orange and brown carpets and plenty of mod amber glass chandeliers were installed. The end of the era had come.
I really feel very lucky to have these wonderful memories that certainly cultivated a love of movies and I suspect a love of Art Deco interiors too!

A Modern Fairytale. The Idiopathic Hypersomniac Princess.

Once upon a time a lovely little daughter was born to an upwardly mobile  Melbourne couple. They named her Aurora Elizabeth Jane and organised a very nice after party at her christening which was at that old cathedral in the city. A very nice affair.

All the gorgeous friends and relatives were invited, well except one. The mother's cousin. Her name was Skye Laark and she lived in Byron Bay. The new mum just did not want her cousin to ruin the day. Skye Laark (born Tracie Lee Buck) was into potions, herbs and spells, wore outrageous clothes, smelt of incense and had a quite tasteless tatoo.
"You've made the right decision" said the other cousins, "she probably wouldn't come anyway".

The day was going beautifully, all those thousands spent on pink flowers and  fairy lights were worth it! That was until.....Skye Laark turned up with her son Gnu York and her little girl, Northern Star.
"My invitation must have been lost" she said.

Aurora's mum was squirming. The invitation had plainly stated No Children!
And her hair...it was bright orange, well half of it anyway; the other half was shaved!
 All the christening gifts had been given. Skye Laark had a gift. She hung some weird little amulet around Aurora's neck.
"Hmm, karma, I see karma",
"On her eighteenth birthday she will prick her finger and henceforth suffer from idiopathic hypersomnia."

Skye Laark mingled with her cousins, drank the champers while her two children ran rampant and barefoot around the venue. One last cousin had one last gift. "Pfft, rubbish "she told Aurora's mum, "true love and a pure heart will save her", and she placed a gold bracelet with a tiny blue bird charm on it around the baby's wrist.

Aurora grew into a very beautiful girl and as very beautiful girls sometimes are, she was a Princess, and in using this word I don't mean royal! She was a spoilt, entitled brat of a girl.

On her eighteenth birthday she went shopping at Chadstone. She saw a pair of Christian Louboutin, 120mm stilettos, beige blush patent leather, made in Italy, red leather sole, only $700; she had to have them.

She picked them up and pricked her finger on a nail under the heel.

A tiny drop of blood dripped unnoticed on to the red leather.
"I feel weird" she said to her mum as she slumped onto the pink velvet chesterfield sofa in the middle of the shop.
A doctor was called. She was fine, he concluded, simply asleep. I'm sure she'll awaken, he reassured.
No one could move her. She lay sleeping all that day, all that night, all the next day and night.
Soon the media caught wind of her. Tracey Grimshaw was the first. She was dubbed "Chadstone's Sleeping Beauty" by tv shows and newspapers alike. Her fame spread, what a shame she wasn't awake to see it.

Her mother recalled her christening day. "Surely not" she said to her therapist!

Pretty soon young men, driven by the media campaign lined up to awaken her.
None were successful. One young man started a Facebook page. I alone am true of love and pure of heart he stated. He soon had thousands of likers. He was interviewed on The Project. He was sweet, genuine and the excitement was building. His name was Prince! Yes, his mother was a massive fan of the singer and had named her son after him!

The day came, cameras and journalists scuffled and the shoe shop was happy for the publicity it had received over the last few months.

Aurora wasn't looking so good by now, but when you're immobile, it's hard to keep someone looking faboosh.
Prince said a few words and approached Aurora and planted a gentle kiss on her luscious lips.

She stirred. She opened her eyes. There were cheers, there were camera flashes, her mother cried and Prince beamed. It slowly dawned on her.' It's me, they're photographing me!' she realized. She smiled.  She felt the dampness of drool on her cheek.
'I've been asleep' she realized.
She rubbed her eyes. Mascara smeared on her fingers. She felt her hair, it did NOT have the silky feel of freshly straightened hair that it should.
She was suddenly mortified, horrified and terrified. She bolted upright and saw her reflection in the huge mirror in front of her.

She screamed, pushed Prince aside and had a tantrum and demanded a hair straightener immediately.
Her performance went viral and her fifteen minutes of fame was an embarrassing affair for her poor mother.

Aurora and Prince lived happily ever after.
Prince who was indeed pure of heart and true of love married a lovely girl and they lived a charmed life.
Aurora marketed herself brilliantly and continues to make bucket loads of money swanning about as the Sleeping Beauty and face of Louboutin's ongoing advertising campaigns.

                                                                         April 2013 shoot for Madame Figaro China

Recovery, Normality and Other Myths.

With Mother's day tomorrow my thoughts return again to that day nine years ago, the last day our family's life was to be the same as it always had been.

The Monday after was to be the day an MRI found my eighteen year old son's 5cm brain tumour. He was to have surgery the next day and I had no idea I would be hundreds of miles from home and would not return  again for weeks.
Of course the ICU, comas, paralysis, infections, weeks of rehab and the steep learning curve into the world of Neurosurgery and brain function, pulled the rug out from under my life and threw me into a completely new and horrendous place.

Once we were finally home , even though I knew things would be difficult and different, I at least felt I might feel a little more 'normal' or 'at home', but this just didn't happen. I realized our lives were like a side show ride, going around and waiting and expecting we would just jump back on. You sit there watching your old life go around and are puzzled as to why you can't just jump back on, at least to a little of it. The fact that my other sons and husband still rode their rides made things worse and pretty soon they started falling off too.

It wasn't even that I wanted my life back, it was more that I wanted to feel like I was home. I wanted to feel some 'normal'. But it was like all your favourite clothes didn't fit anymore and you couldn't work out why. Home and our lives were a strange, alien place. Give it a bit more time I thought, things will improve.
Six months and I was still puzzled. Twelve months and I was still puzzled. I'm not getting over this, I'm not getting used to this, what's wrong with me, I wondered.
I remember when I started looking for answers. The first article I read was was Kurt's story on brain tumour.net. Kurt wrote of his experience with a tumour twenty years ago at the age of thirteen. He wrote so clearly as if it happened yesterday. This puzzled me. 'Wow, why is he writing about something that happened twenty years ago?' I wondered. He wrote about time, lots of it, change , adjustment and acceptance. I'd had a year, what was my problem?

I didn't have a light bulb moment.
The light bulb flickered feebly on, brightening ever so slowly for me. I read more.
As a mum, your desire is to enable success for your children, to see them independent and happy. You realize you have lots of imbedded expectations of your children. Resetting your ideas of happiness, success and achievement takes a lot of time. Naturally I wanted to help my son reenter life in any way possible, but as my 'helping' failed I felt like I'd failed him too. Nothing was going the way I wanted it to. He was not going to be able to drive, to work, his social life was gone and at a time when life should be opening up, for him it was closing down.

So began the long path to acceptance. While I would never give up on my son, I certainly had to let go. This wasn't about me.

Acceptance brings with it reevaluation, peace, a realization that life's joys, achievements and successes aren't what we might have thought they were.
No, life is never going to be the 'normal' one it once was, but it's a gift. The last nine years have given us a gifts I wouldn't change for anything.


http://www.lemonsizedtumour.com.au/

.....for our full story.

Mangana

Mangana is a little town nestled in behind the imposing peaks of Ben Lomond in Tasmania's North East. Off the main road, it's not ever a drive through or a destination for the average Tasmanian motorist. But for me, ever since the 1988 film The Tale of Ruby Rose some of which was shot there, I've wanted to go there.

Gold was discovered there in 1850 and by 1860 sixty buildings were in place and 104 town allotments sold. By the 1870's the mine was thriving with two hotels, three churches and a school.

By 1881 though, an observer noted: travelling through the once flourishing township of Mangana...the town has a very uninviting appearance. The present state of Mangana is pathetic.

Despite this bad review, it still thrived into the next century.

Well. I don't know what our town reviewer would say about old Mangana now if he held that view in 1881.

 sheep in the front yard................

                                               still got the Christmas tinsel up.............

  old miner's cottage.....

                                             ..............the old school

maybe this was a hotel? Lovely old place.

And the incongruously, well kept and architecturally unusual Catholic Church.

Well, me with my love of history and abandoned places, found Mangana fascinating and charming.
 My grandmother was born and raised in the nearby sister town of Mathinna (that's for another blog), and as I stood in the middle of the main street (no traffic) and took photos, stories she had told me of her childhood seemed a little more real. I just felt if I closed my eyes for a moment, I would open them and see the little girls in boots and stockings running, laughing to the schoolhouse. And the boys, some barefoot, throwing stones and teasing the girls. I'd see the mothers in their long, heavy skirts hanging out the washing, and then a father riding his old pushbike home from working in the mine all day.

The following week post-Mangana-visit, a friend told me her grandmother grew up there, a  neighbour to Alice Christina Irvine 1879-1940. Now, where did I know that name from?

Alice wrote the famous (in Tasmania anyway) Central Cookery Book.

Every Tassie girl with a Tassie born mum or grandma, was familiar with this book and it's many editions. I still use it regularly. By googling Alice.....

http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/irvine-alice-christina-13002


......., I find she grew up in Mangana and her first job was as a paid monitor at the Mathinna school in 1897. By 1906 she went to Melbourne Training College and was Mistress of Domestic Science in Hobart when she put out her book which was to be the definitive text for school girls to come.
Within the pages of this edition is Mangana Cake.

I scan the recipe....12 eggs! Seems they had good chooks in Mangana. Alice has noted at the foot of the recipe that it gives satisfactory results if halved. I'll go with that.

 double line the tin with brown paper....

                 .....using some of my grandmother's utensils, maybe they can help me along a little...


I don't know what Alice was like, but the Head of Domestic Science at my High School was old school and scary. As I was making this cake I could hear her bellowing behind me. As I banged the beater on the bowl... "don't beat that bowl or I'll beat you"....."use your hand girl".
Mrs Morris was still instructing me!

Finished result.

I've never made a fruit cake before, and was quite chuffed with the results. It's really very nice.

Mental illness, grief and disability.

Mental illness, grief and disability: What not to say.

These are really big topics and all I can touch on is my personal experience.
We often wonder what to say when confronted with these issues in our friends and family, and over the years I've heard some "great" advice.

Mental Illness.

"Christians don't get depression"

You're not trusting God enough and your faith is weak, is what usually follows this statement. So christians don't get bi polar? Or any Personality Disorders? Or Brain Injuries?
It doesn't take much of a trip down the trail that follows this logic to see it's pretty flawed. It somehow follows that you bring this upon yourself with your own lack of faith.

 Old Man With his Head in his Hands. Van Gogh 1882

"I'm not the sort of person to get depression".

Somehow it's often thought only negative, weaker people find themselves depressed. 

It can happen to anyone, anytime. Winston Churchill, a great example. A dynamic, active, intelligent and strong man who was plagued with the black dog.

Same is true of anxiety disorder. It's not just a thing that affects nervy, anxious personality types. It doesn't care about your personality, which is why lots of military and police force workers can get it (pretty tough guys).

"Stephen Frys got bipolar."

I've had very little personal experience with bipolar, but a recent Australian Story about TV producer Adam Boland was interesting. When diagnosed with this disorder his mum gave him a list of famous people with bipolar. Google image famous bipolar and lots of really cool people come up.

I don't know if this helped Adam or his mum. Does this make it better and more acceptable than say...  Personality Disorder, Cognitive Disorder or Delusions? Google image 'Paranoid Schizophrenic Personality Disorder famous', and the images aren't so pretty.

While it is always incredibly helpful to know you're not alone in your difficulties,  to look at Steven Fry all smiling, intelligent and functional hosting a tv show probably isn't all that helpful.

Grief.

"You've got to move on."

While this was true for Dicken's Miss Haversham, I think it's far less common in real life than fiction, and even if it is the case is extremely unhelpful to say to someone.

Grief isn't some noxious weed in the garden of our personality that must be rooted out and poisoned at every opportunity. It's something that needs to be there and can be there for many years. Some griefs are life long and are lived with not got over. Particularly the parent/ child loss. The child losing a parent and the parent losing a child. You never 'get over' these.

We talk about our families all the time.
"How's your parents doing?"
"Where are your kids now?"
It can be really difficult for both parties, but maybe the bereaved need to talk about their loved ones too? Ask the widow to tell you about her husband. And then just listen and listen some more.

Disability.

"I saw that disabled guy on tv last night who climbed Mt Everest. What's your problem, why don't you do stuff like that?"

Comedian, journalist and disability advocate Stella Young who died at age 32 last year dreamed of a society where people with a disability who studied, worked and achieved great things were conventional, even ordinary.
http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/comedy/stella-young-dead-comedian-abc-journalist-and-disability-advocate-dies-at-32-20141208-122ch8.html


Sometimes I think that stories in the media don't help the cause. Everybody loves a feel good story about overcoming the odds. But this is usually not the full story. It's a media snap. And great things don't have to be climbing mountains and competing in the Olympics.
All disabilities are so different and all big achievements don't look the same. Comparing them and judging is wrong.
"You're so brave" "you're so lazy" "You should be doing ......."
The mentally or physically disabled are doing the best they can just like the rest of us.

Corinna

My recent trip to Corinna was the first time I'd been there since the mid seventies. As a moody thirteen or fourteen year old, back in the day, it wasn't my preference of a family holiday, but it was a place my dad loved and he went there many times.

 Reluctant as I was, I knew it was a fascinating place even then. Even in the 70's it was a final frontier. You'd turn off from Waratah and head 30 k's or so to Savage River and then on 20 more down a rain forested gravel road till the little hamlet on the banks of the still, dark Pieman River opened up. There were half a dozen or so old miner's cottages still standing and also an old place called The Guest House, which was to be our salubrious accommodation. We were pretty tough kids in the 70's and used to roughing it, but that place even by our standards was  dive. The main living area was okay, a big stone open fireplace and some comfy old chairs. A long hallway led off to ten or so bedrooms. The further down the hall, the worse the conditions, seemed to be the the way the system worked. My sister and I chose the best room, it had two beds (with mattresses) and although it had no glass in the windows, this was a small price to pay for the best room of the house. My brother and dad got next choice. Second best room had no windows at all, a black hole of a room. There were no bathroom or toilet facilities in the house, you used the camp ground long drop. Star ratings weren't the go.
 That evening a hippy/backpacker joined us at the Guest House too. He opted for a room down the end of the hall. I can't remember if he saw the night out, presumably he did.

The Guest House today(on the left).

photo by James Ostinga www.australianphotography.com

Despite this we had a great time. We walked, explored and our dad rented a dingy. We found the two old graves and huon pine headstones on the south bank of the river, found old mine works and putted down to the Pieman Heads and the Conical Rocks on the coast.

You do wonder, even today, what would compel anyone to carve out a township here in this completely inhospitable place. Even by today's standards, it's the end of the earth, let alone in the last decades of the 1800's when it was established. The simple answer is gold. Corinna has had a few heydays, but in the early 1880's alluvial gold was being found. In 1883 Tasmania's biggest ever nugget was dug out, 6.8 kg. By 1890 the Tasmanian Post Office Directory listed a population of 29 men and one woman, Mrs Jessie Devlyn the Post Mistress. Brave woman. In 1893, the count was at 800. There were two pubs, one on either side of the river, store, Post Office, and by all accounts a town with all the drinking, roudiness and brawls that you'd expect from a gold town on the final frontier. The pub on the south side of the river was quite a grand affair, snugly built into the rain forest. It could only be reached by ferry.

Star Hotel. www.waratah.vpweb.com.au

In the 1930's Bill Thorne and photographer Jack Robinson drove along the old cart track and found the long since abandoned town and the old hotel still standing on the other side of the river. After that tourism began.

1958 Jim Day touring on his Velocette

This fantastic picture is titled "at the end of the earth" Corinna, Tasmania.

From velobanjogent.blogspot.com.au

Back to 2014, and Corinna is still an amazing destination. Accommodation cabins have been built sympathetically using upcycled roofing and the Tarkine Hotel has a great pub feel and fantastic food.
Even though these buildings are quite new, you get the feeling that the wilderness still quietly wins herself over and that in a few years you'll be struggling to find Corinna again in the forest growth. Lichen grows on the fences and it can be hard to pick the new places from the old. There is now a ferry to take you to a link road on the south side of the river, but this was out of action due to maintenance on our trip. In keeping with the old times, we had to back track our way out again and take the long road to our destination the next day which was Zeehan.

The lovely girl who checked us in opened up the old Guest House for us to have a sentimental sticky beak inside. It's been done up and larger parties can book it out. The rooms have improved quite dramatically, glass in all the windows, bedding, mattresses, toilet, shower, complete luxury really........why back in our day all we 'ad was an 'ession bag on floor.......