A Gap in the Line.

He touched the medals tenderly, the ribbon colours sublime,

The case of burnished velvet, the soft attractive shine,

He touched the medals tenderly, an Uncle’s Great War “shrine”.

Posthumously given for courage, in “closing a gap in the line”.

 

In closing a gap in the line he died, in mud, gore and slime.

It was for these tokens of honour, he marched, to fill a gap in the line.

With Union men, many of them with those medals he’d proudly stride.

Union men, many of them and a title his Uncle wore with pride.

 

Himself, a Wharfie, born and bred, right down the family line,

His Uncle too, t’was always said, could lump a hundred-weight a time,

Bagged sugar, sticky with sweat, soaking wet, at eighty tons an hour,

The men would lug from those cargo holds with no break for tucker.

 

In the Summer strike of ’98  they marched for conditions fair,

When “Patrick” crawled to Howard’s Government to send the coppers there.

Along with the Farmer mercenaries trained by the covert ; “Sandline”

They sought to break the strikers…to break through a gap in the line.

 

In the middle of the night they sent in the thugs, the scabs and the dogs,

It was hard to tell which was which among the slavering, crawling hogs.

And deals were made and rights were trade between the ruling class,

That left the strikers on their own to hold the line tight to the last.

 

Howard set the dogs on the men and the women and children in kind,

Reith, the crawling bastard, banked the scabs through a mercenary company; “Sandline”,

And the Journalist sucks and the Murdoch hacks lent their honour to that shameful crew,

And wrote of “overpaid wharfie bludgers” when of sweat and blood they NEVER knew.

 

 

And he saw the look in the breaker’s eyes, he saw the hate confined,

So clasping tight, holding the next striker’s arms with all his might,

He called and bellowed fit to wake in fright..:”Hold boys, Hold!”

“ Hold my bastard boys!…we’ll not let them force a gap in the line!”

 

There comes a time in everyone’s heart, where honour and justice combine,

We must choose which side we’re marching on..what a sense of honour defines.

Would his Uncle have him march for nought, but just a place in a line,

Or should he honour best his Uncle’s pride with his class aligned.

 

 

Today he touches those medals tenderly, with a habit long refined,

But he’ll not march on Anzac Day…not while those Tory scabs declaim,

No..there’ll be a space where he held his place with the others marching time,

And owed in respect for his Uncle’s indebt’..they’ll now see clearly outlined,

That in the place of his marching space…there’ll be a gap in the line.

 

There’ll be a gap in the line my fellows…there’ll be a gap in the line.

Owed in respect to an Uncle’s indebt’…Today there’s a gap in the line.

 

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In Responsum.

 

There seems to be a lot of accusations from that coterie of hem-huggers to the cloth of left-wing radicalism that accuse some of being little more than attention-seekers on the pages of some blogs. This reply is NOT to those I mention above as I have grave doubts they will even have the nous to comprehend the points I make…but since ANY mud thrown has an adhering quality on social media, I give cause for my confrontational attitude to the attention of the more discerning readers that will take time to reason out such a cause.

Let us start…:

Recently, in response to a Dr.Georgio Venturini’s article ; “Beyond the Palace Letters” on the AIMN blog ..;  https://theaimn.com/beyond-the-palace-letters/  , I posted a comment drawing attention to what I saw as a familiarity to his intent to analyse the historical developement of Australian Politics to what I saw as a connection..in principle…to an old Roman drinking game called in modern parlance: “Passatella”…known in latter-day Southern Italy as : “The Law”. This is not some ordinary “game” as we (and some un-named fools) understand games with either card or dice….but it is socio/political game played out with the cruellest of intentions over the café table…It has a benign “face” but a malevolent underpinning of structure that understands and makes use of the lingering hatred and enemies of the individual players…here..:

“Passatella – Italy

Called ‘sadistic’ by some, this Southern Italian drinking game has its roots in the traditions of the convivium, but it’s quite different, with far different consequences for ‘losing.’ The game was played (or at times banned) throughout Italy for centuries. Passatella has many variations so we’ll stick to the basics:

  • Eight to ten men would pitch in to buy drinks to be shared by all.
  • A game, such as bocce, dice, cards, or morra (see below) was played to determine a padrone (the boss) and a sotto-padrone (the underboss).
  • A round of drinks was ordered.
  • The padrone drank the first glass, in a single gulp, and then offered the second glass to his sotto-padrone, who did the same.
  • The padrone then began offering cups to the other men in the group, each of whom would have to ask the sotto-padrone for permission to drink. If granted, that man drank the cup, again, in a single gulp. This process typically involved insult-laden speeches explaining why or why not a given man was being offered (and granted or denied) a drink

This would go on until the round was finished. A new game would be played to determine the next round’s padrone and sotto-padrone until everyone was good and drunk or a bit of violence broke out. As you can imagine, if the padrone and sotto-padrone weren’t equitable in doling out drinks, as some men got drunk, and others suffered through the rounds soberly, the insults and reactions could escalate. As the rounds went on, if certain men kept being denied (drinks for which they chipped in money!), well, that’s when the game turned ‘sadistic’ if common folklore is to be believed. Vengeance is said to have often involved knifings, which, given the game’s not-so-subtle allusions to the Mafia, isn’t entirely unbelievable.” ( https://vinepair.com/wine-blog/learn-6-historical-drinking-games/ )

The reason I included mention of this “game” was because it perfectly describes the passive/aggressive nature of Australian politics and as far as I am concerned, who controls left-wing debate on social media. Where those who hold the power to grant hearing via condescension and/or privilege to those they favour and to “set the dogs onto” those they do not, is a regular feature with the MSM and on some sites. I know, for I have travelled this route many times.

This call to now having to justify a position on many posts is not a new thing to many of us…It first started for me back almost three years to the day when I published a “light-hearted” post calling for a : https://freefall852.wordpress.com/2016/04/26/a-revolution-against-the-middle-classes/ …I posted that piece on another blog (“The Pub”)…and I was immediately attacked by those moderators and “favoured hem-huggers” on the site for daring to attack that class that they claimed was a fully represented majority on that very site!…For daring to critique that class, I was “sent to Coventry” by the gatekeepers of refined blogging!…many of us on the far-left have experienced this vindictiveness.

At this point I have to here humbly but proudly make claim that…I hold an unenviable position of being one of the most left-wing radical poster on that blog..my many articles and stories leaning more heavily to the left of Chairman Mao than seeking the comfortable centre…There is a reason for this.

There is now resident within the left of politics a cabal of succubus/incubus of middle-class placaters and pacifiers who rather than radicalise politics, seek to control the conversations through a false doctrine of “calming reasoning” and “soft-cock placating” of the voice of protest….another post I placed in my own protest of this creeping virus…: https://freefall852.wordpress.com/2018/03/20/just-who-controls-the-conversation-of-left-wing-politics/  ..it was this post that sealed my fate with those “finishing-school radicals” and they set the dogs of those blogs onto me…and like the above game of Passatella, the main controllers make certain they do not get their “hands dirty”, but let their lieutenants snarl and gnash their teeth.

This “just peachy” attitude to politics has given strength to the right-wing media to lay the  claim via covert agents that there is little or “no difference” between the major parties..and if one reads the wording, the tone and the criss-crossing lines of neo-liberal economics over the last few years…which is what is so frequently referred to in the claims…there is some cause for the justification of the accusation…the object being that once the position of “both the same” is accepted by the voters, the right-wing media can resume with uninterrupted distraction to plead their shitty policies as “equals” on a now level playing field…which we are now seeing..and THAT is because I BELIEVE the Centre-left’s genitals are now securely in the comfortable “Gucci-gloved” grip of the socially acceptable middle-class dilletantes of politics. It is why the right-wing is using forceful words to sway an indecisive voting public to doubt what they would label as ; “wishy-washy social policy” and to embrace fascist absolutism…in an uncertain world of apparently increasing violence, many look for security to what they perceive as a position of strength.

And that is another reason I have grave doubts about many of these spruikers of virtue signalling and button pushing pseudo left-wing ideals…while at the same time keeping a cautious, unwavering eye on their social and financial status and would be prepared, I’d warrant, to change boats midstream if anything threatened their long-term security quicker than you could hum the last two bars of Wagner’s ; “Gotterdammerung”…I don’t trust these political feuilletonists to hold ground when push comes to shove..I suspect they will fold and quickly meld into the ranks of the opposition as the middle-class has in so many more than one period of Australian political history, their carefully chosen language as well at home in the plush parlours of the private clubs as on the pages of their favoured blog where they wield more power than ought or deserve to be granted.

And THAT is why I will continue to stir the pot of coagulating porridge…to stop these self-congratulatory virtue-signalers in their tracks…It is why I believe we all have to hold to that doctrine of “continual revolution” to belay the whispering imp of self-satisfaction with one’s position from making us lazy and indolent..NOT to seek attention, but rather for us all to PAY ATTENTION!

 

A list of stories posted on the blog here.

 

Amelia di Cielo and the blackmailer.

The jewel of the eye.

The exile of Celia Adamson.

To the lighthouse.

Jim; a character study.

Mick; a character study.

A quiet little corner of the world.

Jasper/The tank sisters.

Billy Guy.

A simple love affair.

Morning glory.

Epiphany.

Haunted by history.

Proverb/parable (there may be a number of these).

A trivial enquiry.

Two cameos.

The pencil.

Aunty.

Saffron; “The Brave”.

Glen and Mrs. Wright.

“Static electricity”.

Penance.

Sweet innocence.

Kids, cultural differences and Willy Wilson’s ferrets.

Journo’s cameos.

More journo’s cameos.

An act of contrition.

Saying goodbye to Ferruchio.

The apprentice’s revenge.

The conversion of Father Carravalo.

Errol’s prawn night.

“Sos”.

Nan.

Toothless.

Irresistible song.

The commission.

The resurrection of Herbert Griegs.

The puppets of Margie Meagher.

The story of Hannibal/Hannibal’s tale.

The big catch.

The love bowl.

The last lingering kiss.

Cruel Madonna.

A box of spoons.

Poor cocky.

A small pebble.

Why I live where I live.

Barmaids.

Adam Jablonskis.

Mrs. Hancock.

Pearl.

The true story of Artini the woodcutter and Tess, his aboriginal lover.

Kapitan Kemp’s diary.

The phantom turd flinger of Preston.

Roman holiday.

Fields of deceit.

Melancholy Max’s Christmas.

Beautiful dreamer.

The girl in the blue dress.

Mrs. Fookes and the Marino fish shop.

Cheeriozy!

On the rim of a far horizon.

Got the old shack up for sale.

Sacred site.

Taking down of the calendars.

The man who discovered forever.

Letters from the dead.

Essay: The joy of walking.

Maris Zalups.

Steve.

The old couple.

On health practitioners and other medicines.

A two dollar coin.

Nailing down a pine floor.

Soil.

“Write again, Blue eyes”.

Precious.

Slow cooking in a black kitchen.

Letter to a friend.

The end of stories.

Joyce delivers the flowers.

History on the back of a beer coaster.

Danny and Moira.

The seven weeping men of Sedan.

The three sisters.

 

The Three Sisters.

Image result for Three sisters pics.

“Buongiorno signore e signora turisti”.. Bertouli called out effusively with appropriate operatic gestures with the arms.

” Welcome to my humble stall….Scusi signora, but your shadow falls on my bowls and utensils and dulls their shine….grazi!” he danced around his wares manipulating the tourists with gentle hand movements, all the while keeping up a running commentary on everything and anything..

“So, just off the train from Naples eh? have a good trip?….see here, this is an exact replica of the Emperor Caligula’s goblet,..that he would use to toast the death stroke of some unfortunate wretch! … and here, a platter very useful for the salada,..fruit..or just hanging on the wall for the decoration.“

He bent down as he spoke to rearrange his wares. He straightened in disbelief when he heard the next question…..

“Why did I become a coppersmith?” he repeated the question. put his hands on his hips looking at the ground and smacked his lips together so they “popped”. -Why-am-I-a-coppersmith? ”

Bertouli sighed and then suddenly shrugged his shoulders up, his two hands out flat in front,..

“Why did God become God?! and he raised his eyes and hands to heaven. “Santa cielo to tell you the truth though”, he confided secretively,” I never wanted to be a coppersmith”. here he took the man gently by the forearm and drew him closer to himself, the woman out of natural curiosity also came close, he had a captive audience! not for nothing was Bertouli known as the best liar in the district!

“To tell you the truth, signore e signora,….I always wanted to be the village idiot!…don’t laugh..don’t laugh! look, village idiots don’t have to stand out in wind and rain selling bloody copper pots and pans to what’s your country? Ah! .to Australian touristi..no..but”, he dropped his arms wearily to his side and sighed,”I was beaten for the job….two others, the parish priest and the Mayor were running neck and neck for the position….and seeing as I didn’t have an education ..(he sighed again) …so!..there was nothing left for it but to resign myself to the abysmal fate of earning an honest living, so I became a coppersmith.”

“Now, this urn, madam, cast your eyes on the ancient Greek embossing, from the temple of Aphrodite..a fertility celebration,…you can have it cheap!  What, no fertility left!…ahh! a sad fate signora,..and one that overtakes us all I’m sorry to say but then we have.. (you have the bambini?…ah! good, bene) our children, but pity those who are denied that delight signora,..ahh, madonna mio.” and Bertouli sat wearily down on a door step next to his stall and sighed,” Yes signori, many a tale can be told of couples desparate for the little bambini.”

Here he puckered his lips then raised a finger to the sky.

“I remember one such couple in our village many years ago ” he paused. looked to the ground then raised his eyes stealthily….”but you wouldn’t want to hear such a mysterious tale”,  there was a stillness in the air as Bertouli felt for their sympathy…He played his card…”..especially as it concerns three witches!” and his eyes met the eyes of the woman cunningly. “What’s that. you would!?….but no, no signora, it is much too long, the day is warm and I am already thirsty!…” he stroked his bristly chin thoughtfully. “I tell you what I’ll do, for just a little carafe of vino from the ”Bar Centuri” over there, I’ll regale you with the whole sordid story,..heh,heh,..you’ll like that, eh signora?..But quickly, quickly, presto. I thirst and the two tourists rushed off to the Bar. Bertouli sighed. The man from the next stall sidled over to Bertouli and spoke out of the corner of his mouth:

“Eh, Berto,you got a couple of live ones there,….buona fortuna!” and he moved away smiling, stopped, thought a moment then turned back to Bertouli; “If you have a little of the wine left remember your friend Alfonso!” and he tapped the side of his nose and winked.

Bertouli suddenly became motivated, he poked his head into the doorway of the house next to his stall and called ; “Signora Seneca, tre bicchieri per favore?”

“Quando ritorno?” a voice inside asked.

“As soon as we have finished the bottle!” Bertouli cried. “Pulito? yes,…clean as a whistle and I’ll dry them with my tongue! .” the last comment was spoken in a whisper.

The two tourists returned with the carafe of wine. Bertouli began his story..

“Now, amici, keep in mind that these events took place in another age. An age when superstition was to some degrees; dogma! and every village had its “Witch-doctor”. But then, that was also not so long ago! I sometimes think our modern medicine hovers on the boundry of the absurd, and in the end we all have to be our own physicians, eh?”

Bertouli took the carafe from the tourists so as to facilitate more expediently the transfer of wine from bottle to glass.

” There.” he said, handing a small glass of the wine to each..; “Salute!”

“Our little village of Castella di Luci, was part of the estate of a wealthy Padrone, who lacked in nothing save a son to carry on his name and the estate. For he was of that generation that looked to the male to become the next “Padrone” and so continue the family tradition. But that was not to be! Three girls and no boy. Then one cruel winter, his wife died of influenza….he was heart-broken, for he loved that woman dearly,…and she was pregnant when she died,…yes..a boy child that died with her. (“sigonori…un ultri? ah! si! grazi!”).

“Well, the Padrone buried them both then settled down to drink and curse his fate into an early grave. The three young girls were raised by an old retainer and her husband, the gardener. The Padrone forgot about them, so bitter was he, and continued to drink his misfortune away. And so he joined his wife and unborn child ten years later to the day!”

Bertouli slapped both hands flat on his knees to emphasize fates’ whimsical twists.

“Well, those three little children were raised by the housekeeper and her husband. The property was sold by the executors to pay debts the old Padrone had run up…all was sold except three identical cottages, side by side along the high road. These the old man had built as a sort of dowry for when the girls grew up. And grew up they did, though none too handsome I might add, and they each one lived in one of those three cottages, and as time went on and they never married, they slowly took on those inevitable eccentricities that identify bachelors and spinsters. Each had an interest in gardening, so with a small income left them from the estate they lived and thrived in their little individual worlds. “

“The first one had an interest in herbs, her garden bristled with strange, wonderous weeds which would overwhelm you with mystical aromas when you walked past. She could always be seen out amongst those tenacious plants singing and crooning soft songs while dressed in tassled cloaks and heavy woollen dresses of her own make and design, busy turning the earth with a small garden spade as she hummed…Her name was Marita..we nicknamed her : FATE. “

“The second was a light, delicate child, and indeed, she was the same grown to womanhood. Her passion was flowers. Such sweet fulsome blooms of so many varied hues you never saw the like of before and I’ll risk the future to say; you’ll never see the like of again! She too would sing while tending her beds of poppies or mughetti, rose-hedges and lilies, showers of sweet-peas would wash over the fence like a woven waterfall of dancing confetti…and when a wild wind blew, all the front yard up and leapt a-swaying and swirling like a wild tribe in the free abandon of some pagan dance!….she of the multi-coloured skirts we called : FACE.. though her name be Katrina.”

“The third sister was the more serious of them all, with her hair pulled back stern to a tight bun at the back of her head and she clothed in trousers and gum-boots, she would till the earth in her garden as though she were teaching it a lesson, so there were long beds of rich, brown soil oozing an aroma of humus and worm with a faint scent of dry straw wafting amongst the bean trellises. She grew vegetables, all types, and she grew them well, her name was Jaquelina we nicknamed her : FAVOUR.”

“So there they stayed and there they cultivated their own peculiar idiosyncrasies, we referred to them as the three sisters:_Fate, Face. Favour! And they had strange powers those sisters,…mark my words when I say that!….strange ways, strange powers! (fill my glass signor, I thirst!…huh?..you’ll second that?…ha.ha,…very good! _saluti!). I’ll tell you amici, down south here, we are still very pagan in our beliefs, very superstitious….oh si, yes….we give the saints their candles and the pope still gets his silver, but our hearts….(he leant close to whisper) our hearts are with the pagan gods! Ecco! (Bertouli cried as he leapt to his feet and spun his torso in a lithe, quick-stepping momentary dance, finishing with a “Spanish” flourish of the wrists in the air) : we pray to Jesus but dance to Dionysus!”

“The three sisters grew to be our “priests” of pagan superstition, to them we would go for visions of hope, of wealth, for cures of illness. Many mothers would burn a candle at the church for a sick child, then sneak off to Lady Fate for a hopeful cure with a concoction of herbs and secret chanting.. even for a little fortune telling from lady Face…what do I mean; “even”.. Madonna mio!, for wasn’t that their speciality?..and they would do it with riddles, with cryptic clues or even facial expressions….my word! they were not often wrong either.”

“ For instance: There once was a black marketeer; Capodolcia, his name was, a very wealthy man. then one day he suddenly disappeared….never came back (Bertouli tapped the side of his nose) he was, as they say in those old Yankee movies; “taken for a ride.” And do you know. the day before he disappeared, he comes over to my shop holding a cucumber….

” Mother Favour, she gives this to me as I passed her place ” he said quizzically.

“Did she say anything?” I asked.

“Not a word!….curious what can it mean?” he said puzzled.

“Well, I for one remember the old saying: The world is like a cucumber ; one day it is in the palm of your hand, the next it is up your arse!” The next day he goes and never comes back…a mystery eh?..but that is what those sisters were like, cryptic and mysterious. ( I can see the future now in the bottom of my glass, signor….it looks like a drought..grazie!). But there was one young fellow who scorned the superstitions, even openly mocked those ladies to the quiet mirth of his friends, though none of his companions would openly laugh at his jibes, being caught between the two worlds, so to speak. And it came about that the young man, “Sfaccio”, married. and the wedding party walked past the cottages of the three sisters from the church to the parent’s house for the reception, as was the custom in the village and as was also the custom, the three sisters would give the married couple a token each from their garden to wish the newly-weds well.

At the first cottage, that of Mother Fate, parsley was given to the bride as a sign of fertility. Mother Face gave a boquet of lily as a testament of lasting beauty..and the party then proceeded on to the third cottage.

As Sfaccio came abreast of the cottage of Favour, he, being in an extra happy frame of mind, thought for a bit of sport with the lady there in her garden. He held his hands high to stop the procession and leant over the fence of mother Favour.

“My dear Mother Favour”, he called jovially.. “pray attend to the request of the bridal party and tell, if it be in your power, how many bambini will bless their household?” and he laughed uproaresly, others ducked their eyes away, some moaned sheepishly for no-one had ever openly mocked those women before.

” Tell me oh wise mistress..how many seeds planted in our garden will germinate to fruition or will our loins be as barren as ….” and Sfaccio suddenly snatched off the hat of his father-in-law…” Pappa’s head!?” and at this everyone laughed, even the father-in-law grinned as he grabbed his hat back, for Sfaccio was friendly if a little cheeky! as the laughter died down there was mother Favour standing there at the fence with her hand out and ten seeds in the palm.

“What are these?” Sfaccio asked, the giggles dying around him.

“Melon seeds” Favour answered,” Take them to the grotto of San Felice, plant them in the shadow of her smile and there count your bounty.” and she turned away with no more to say.

Well, Sfaccio made to cast them aside but his bride held his arm.

“Hold thy patience love, plant them for but the novelty and we will try to match their number.”

“And should all ten sprout?” Sfaccio laughed.

“All the more arrows for thine quiver.” His bride smiled. (ah!, amici, it is true that the women have a closer tie to the gods….and the devil!) Sfaccio held his arm up with the seeds in his fist and gazed deeply into his bride’s eyes, but those same that once mesmerised him were now shrouded in mystery! (a wine, signore, a wine!) and he lowered his arm, put the seeds in his pocket, he then called an over-exagerated..: “Addio! Mother Fortune.” and the party moved on.

A week later they passed my shop walking up the hill.

“Ah!” I called out jovially “the newlyweds surface! and where are you two off to on such a crisp day?”

“We are off to plant some seeds, Signore coppersmith.” Sfaccio called hack

“What!.. and thou has been idle for the last week!?” I laughed.

“Ah!..but this time we plant them under the nose of the blessed Saint Felice!” Sfaccio waved his right hand in a swirling motion.

“Well at least cover her eyes with your cloak lest she get jealous, the saints can’t abide with happy humans!” and the two laughed together and trudged off up the hill.

Now , Franco ,the shepherd-boy just happened to be with his flock there near the grotto, and while he saw and heard them, they were oblivious to his presence, particularly as he had hidden himself most cunningly behind some rocks. This is what he heard:

” Now, Sfaccio, we are nearly there,….where did she say to plant the seeds?”

“In the shadow of Saint Felice’s smile, wherever that is,..but, my love, I confess, I have forgotten to bring them!” and Sfaccio raised his hands in mock apology.

” It’s alright, I took them myself…..lest thou fail to remember..Now….where can be the shadow of her smile?”and she gazed around the base of the grotto. Sfaccio’s shoulders dropped with his arms.

“Dear Primula (for that was the wife’s name) this is foolishness to pursue, such a sweet day was made for embracing, not grovelling on a fool’s errand!”

“Ahl” Primula cried”There.. Sfaccio, look!” and she pointed to the ground. Poor Franco was nearly exposed as he gaped over the rocks to see what it was..

“Oh. of course …I see it, mio stupido….dirt!” Sfaccio mocked.

“Don’t be silly, there, the shadow of her statue on the ground, and there, her lips at the base of the boulder. Here, the seeds, plant them. Sfaccio!”

“What!…not I dearest….why.”(.and he turned to look in every direction)”what if someone were to see me?”

“There is no-one here save the saint and thee and me.”

“Those look like Franco’ s flock, he could be hiding, watching us this very minute.”

“What fearest thou from his tongue?’

“You know these people, they see you doing any little strange thing why, if one was to fart in the village of Brommio. by the time you reach Castella di Luci three kilometri hence, the word is already about that you shit yourself!”

But Primula took no notice of him, such is the stubbornness of women.

“Just plant the seeds quickly and it will be done and we will not linger. The longer thou speech…”

“Alright, alright, it is done!” he said vexed and suspecting that he had been conned, such are the remaining feelings of a woman’s persuasive logic. And I tell you amici, none of those seeds sprouted, and also…no bambini! (look signore! no more wine ,presto per favore..to the Bar Centuri”…and the tourists trotted off to get another carafe).

“Bertouli!..Bertouli!” Alfredo called from the next stall..”You talk too much and too long, remember your friends!” Bertouli looked over and there was Alfredo and Biacchio both wide eyed rubbing their hands together. Bertouli schussed them with pattering hands as the tourists returned.

“Ah!..new wine, new friends, new day!” Bertouli cried effusively..and then continued..

“At first Sfaccio dismissed the delay as bad luck then, as the cycles came and went, they both grew more alarmed….no bambini!..and what is it that possesses the Italian heart, even more than love?..ah!…the family, the bambini!…the little children that drop to earth from God’s lips…il piccilo baci di Dio! Secretly, Sfaccio was seen to visit the grotto of Saint Felice to check if those seeds had sprouted, for little by little that idea had got hold of him, so do we all grasp such thin straws in times of despair. But no seedlings, and allora…no bambini.”

“ The people of the village had not failed to notice either, not for nothing is it written: “and the eyes are not satisfied with seeing, nor the ears filled with hearing..” and I might add: “and the mouth emptied from talking!” so the chatter did the rounds of the village, one gossip to the next and worst of all, Sfaccio and Primula heard not a word of it! which made them all the more anxious, for they suspected the substance of those rumours. Finally Sfaccio could stand no more ,so he fronted the cottage of mother Fortune.

“Hey!…”he called out sheepishly from the gate, “hey there…Lady Fortune?” but there was no answer. He was about to leave with hands in pockets when Lady Face motioned him to come over to her fence.

“My sister is away in Brommio on business  what would you want with her?”

“Ah…it is a little business between us two, madam.” Sfaccio grumbled.

“And have the seeds sprouted?” Lady Face asked slyly. Sfaccio looked up suddenly.

“What would you know of any seeds?”

“One has ears master Sfaccio. and one knows one’s own kin!”

Sfaccio grasped the pickets of the fence fiercely.

“Then tell me, if you know the curse, what have I to do to undo it?”

“Why master, who spoke of a curse?….still….one shouldn’t jest with Jacquelina, she has no ear for humour and she will try hard to avenge any slight she feels…”

“But what of this mystery of the seeds..is that not a curse?”

“Ah!…maybe, but then again the seeds may have been boiled beforehand for just such an occasion..”

“But how would she have known the question before it was asked?”

“There you may have the “magic” master Sfaccio.” Lady Face said cunningly. “Why was she in her garden just as you passed?..But there. let it lie, and take these seeds, they are ‘Love’s heart lies bleeding’ and plant them next to the others, see, they sprout everywhere here, you will soon see a bounty for yourself and your wife.”

“What!..more seeds!..ma fungool…if I have to plant a whole pasture next!?”

“Well, young master, leave it be and go away then and none shall be the sorrier.” and she turned to go.

“Wait! …I apologise for my hastiness signora, I..I will take the seeds we have nothing to lose” he mumbled as he held out his hand.

“just one thing”, she said as she gave him the seeds,” water them with an idiots tears!”

“What!…Madonna santissima dio boio!  I’m the only idiot left here I’m sure!”

“No, there is Boffo.”

“But how am I to do that, signora?”

“That is your problem, I can only give you the solution….good day to you master Sfaccio.” and she went inside the cottage.

Boffo was the village idiot, he would be mostly idle save when required to do a little light labouring in return for food or drink. At other times he was full of pranks. Sfaccio indeed had his work cut out for him, for all Boffo did was laugh! But Sfaccio struck onto a plan!

Now isn’t it a strange thing, amici, that nothing is freely given in this world without some string attached to the tail…even God wrote a “rider” into the contract of the garden of Eden!

So Sfaccio caught up to Boffo at the Bar…

“Here Boffo, have another glass,…it’s a little thing for such a hard world that we live in”. “Ha.Ha…well, and thankee master Sfaccio. cruel, yes cruel. and he gulped the wine greedily.”

They sat at a table in the darkened corner of the bar. “Yess…(Sfaccio drawled out) ” cruel…I was just yesterday thinking of old mother Zoanetti, and her three sons.”

“00hh!..Zoanetti…si,si…sad..so sad…tell me, Sfaccio….who was she and what of her?”

“Here, drink up Boffo, drink up!” and he filled the glass again after Buffo gulped down the last dregs.

” Ah!..it’s a worthy tale from sadder times.” Sfaccio sighed “Those were loyal people, loyal to their kindred, stuck like glue they did. Well,…The Zoanetti’s were peasants farming up in the hills over Campobasso when the war was at its height. There were the father, mother and three sons. The war was raging in the north and as the oldest son came of age to fight, he was called up. Away he went, oh the sadness for a mother to see her offspring going away with rifle over his shoulder where once he carried his favourite blanket. and never knowing if that child ( for we are always children in our mothers eyes, eh Boffo?.. drink up!) would return. And they waved him off down the road….and he never came back…never heard a word from him, probably killed straight off as he got to the front.

Then the second son came of age and he too marched off to war with nothing but a backward wave to his grieving mother….and he too was lost in the mayhem of fighting in the mountains. Try as they would, no word came back of his fate. Ahh! the grief a mother feels at such moments when her children are snatched from her bosom and thrown to the dogs of war! The weeping, the grieving…( drink Boffo, drink! ), still, there was the youngest, when he came of age she refused to part with him, for he was the favourite, she implored him to hide. for her sake! But to no avail, he ,himself turned up to be kitted out, for how could he shirk that duty that his brothers faced so couragesly. How she wept and implored the saints as he too walked down that road. The father had to support her as she collapsed to her knees with clasped hands and weeping contorted face! (You see the situation eh Boffo? You could just see them there in the middle of the road all sad and miserable…some more?) and would you believe it?…the same again, no word, silence to every enquiry the old couple made. But then they were dying like flies up there at the front and who knew whom was alive or dead.

“Oohh..master Sfaccio,..si..I myself lost two uncles at that war…oh it was indeed pitiful” and Boffo sniffed sorrowfully, Sfacio was encouraged.

“So one day the father says: ‘Wife, you’ll have to manage the farm, I’m going to the front to find my sons” and sad as she was. she rejoiced that at last they would at least get some answers to their worries. So he joined that circus of fighting to see what or where his sons were. If he found them no-one ever will know for he too failed to return, till there, all alone with her grief, mother Zoanetti vowed to search the mountains and battlefields till she found her family. The courage of those mothers was something to reckon with.eh Boffo?” Boffo’s eyes were brimming with tears, Sfaccio was overjoyed, his plan was working!

“Ahh! my own mother…ah!” Boffo nodded his head sadly. Sfaccio took out a clean handkerchief ready to capture those tears and then to wrap them around the seeds given him by Lady Face.

“She was a sturdy peasant so it wasn’t hard to disguise herself as a journeyman labourer, and in this guise she shouldered her pack of essentials and with one last glance over her shoulder at the old farm that had given them so many memories, she headed down the road and do you know, Boffo?…..she-never-came-back!” Sfaccio finished his story with a sad drawn out sentence and Boffo sat there drunk and maudlin with tears running down his cheeks.

“That is the saddest story master Sfaccio… “ and he sniffled and snortled.

Sfaccio held out the handkerchief;

“Here, my good friend Boffo, wipe your tears with this.”  He offered the cloth generously, Buffo looked wide eyed at the crisp clean handkerchief.

“Why..grazie, signore Sfaccio…grazie”, he said softly and he took it so very gently in both hands as if it would break and raised it to his face in wide-eyed wonder. ( as was also the anticipating Sfaccio ) then suddenly put it to his nose and blew with such force it fluttered as it filled with his gruesome snot!

“Stronzi!” cried Sfaccio and he swung his fist to knock Buffo flying, but too late. for Buffo was to his feet like a shot and out the door baying like a donkey, for such was his laughter. Sfaccio ran to the door yelling abuse after him to no avail, for it was his own misery that he was abusing.

“Why curse the fool? Sfaccio.” one of the men standing there asked.

“Ah…nothing”. Sfacio answered and stormed off, but not without hearing as he went:

“Even a well-dressed donkey cannot hide his ears.” and then followed light laughter. He decided on another more direct way to get those tears from Boffo. A fortnight later, Sfaccio bailed up Boffo in the street.

“Hey! Boffo….give us a hand will you?” Boffo approached with caution.

“You’re not…not going to attack me are you, Sfaccio?”

“No,no…what’s done is done, no use crying over spilt milk! but I do need a labourer for a small job.”

“What job?”

“See, I have a little work up at the grotto of Saint Felice, I need you to help me take this material up there.”

“It’s late in the day to start work Sfaccio, its near dusk already….and there’s a storm coming on.” “Yes,yes…but this is for tomorrow,…so I can get an early start in the morning a meal and drink for a little help..ok?” Boffo thought for a second,

”Ok, master,…I’m your man.” so Boffo took up the wheelbarrow and Sfaccio the tools and they set off up the hill. It was dusk when they reached the grotto, a stiff wind was blowing off the mountains and rain-heavy clouds rose toward them from the south. Flashes of lightning and soft rumblings of thunder echoed in the distance. They placed the gear in the grotto.

“Well. Sfaccio. we’d better hasten back if we don’t want to get drenched” .

“Why hurry. Boffo. the storm is a while away and I have some wine to refresh us after that long hike.” and he pulled out a bottle of wine and a small bag of food from his sack.

“Ah well then, as you say, master, why rush?” Boffo squatted down on the earth and licked his lips in anticipation. And there they sat in congenial comfort while the weather closed in on them. They had been there a while passing the bottle and bread and indulging in small-talk when Sfaccio let out a sigh.

“Ahh! Boffo, Boffo…I’ll have to let you in on the real reason I lured you up here tonight.” Sfaccio spoke in a wistful! way. Buffo took the bottle and drank a swill.

“What’s that, master?…lure?,..reason?”

“You see these seeds?….here….well, lady Face says I have to plant them tonight, and need your assistance.”

“Ahh! the seeds,  yes I have heard of them that did not grow….You have more?…how many bambini do you want Sfaccio?….you will need a whole province if they all grow, ha, ha!”

“I have only ten ,Boffo, but the lady said that “Boffo must plant them”. and I dare not disobey.” Sfaccio held the seeds out in the palm of his hand.

“Such a small thing, Boffo will be glad to help you.” Boffo took the tiny seeds into his hand.” Where will we plant them?”

“Out there by that boulder is the spot.” Sfaccio pointed to guide Boffo.

They both went outside. The wind was wilder now and sudden little squalls of rain whipped up the valley, the storm was upon them.

“Here,Boffo, dig a little hole here and plant them. Boffo scraped at the earth with his fingers while behind his bent form stood Sfaccio with a long-bladed knife he had secreted in his belt! Boffo dropped the seeds into the earth,

“Now,Sfaccio, do I cover them up?”

“Not just yet, there is one small thing that must be added.”

Sfaccio suddenly grasped Boffo’s hair and pulled back, at the same time brought the knife around to his throat! Boffo yelped in surprise and anguish.

“Now Boffo!! I must have your life!” Sfaccio cried . Boffo howled with fear as he heard these words.

“Why! master, Why?” he whimpered.

“So I am instructed; ‘The blood of Boffo must fertilize them’ she said.”

He brought the knife out so Boffo could see it glimmer and flash in the lightning, like ice in the heart! Boffo howled with fear.

“Stay master, stay, I am just a poor fool with no home.” he wailed. Sfaccio pulled Boffa’s head hack and called out. to the heavens;

“By all the saints in the heavens, I’ll have his tears or I’ll have his blood!” cried Sfaccio to the breaking storm (Bertouli stood glass in one hand, the other raised to emphasise the action) and the heavens opened up and a shaft of lightening struck the side of the hill upon which they were and the crack of thunder shook the very ground upon which they stood…such was the tempest that Sfaccio loosened his grip on Buffo so that in a flash, he twisted out of his grasp and sprung to his freedom out of Sfaccio’s reach as quick as the lightening that just struck the hillside!

Sfaccio gave a desperate cry to the heavens when he saw that his last chance to have an idiot’s tears fertilise the seeds was now running, arms flaying in consternation, down the hillside track…and at that moment it was as if time suddenly stilled, the wind dropped as if out of breath and the storm ceased in its tumult while thunder drummed into the distance the very heavens held its breath….and then, Sfaccio dropped to his knees and broke into a piteous sob and his wretched face rubbered into the most horrible twist of sadness and big tears rolled down his dirty cheeks and dropped, jewel-like into the soft, damp hole that held the seeds.. dropped, dazzling like diamonds onto those tiny seeds. Sfaccio gasped and trembled with lost hope wrapped around his heart and with every tear that touched the earth and those seeds, a clap of thunder shook the mountain and lightning whipped across the apron of the sky!

His face, sheened with rain and fear, quivered and shook with grotesque sculpture and it couldn’t be said who wept the most: the stormy sky from a thunderous rain, or Sfaccio from despair. Sfaccio dropped the knife and wept.

Sfacio had no fears that Boffo would make trouble for him, the story would sound too ridiculous to be believed and besides who would believe an idiot! No, Sfazio stayed mesmerised to the little hole scraped in the earth which held the seeds. He covered them gently anyhow and patted the soil down then went back to the shelter of the grotto to pray. ( Ha!, there! One moment a pagan, the next a Christian!) and so he fell asleep in the grotto to wake to a fine dawn and a clear sky.

Sfaccio rubbed his eyes when he woke, he couldn’t remember falling asleep. But he slowly got to his feet and stumbled out to the dawn. He stretched and yawned, then , remembering the events of the night before glanced quickly to the spot where the seeds were planted, imagine his surprise when he saw there, miraculously just pushing through the topsoil, tiny shoots of seedlings! Their tender tips just. penetrating to the air.

”Blessed Lady!” he cried dropping lo his knees and quickly crossing himself…and so the kind sister was correct in predicting that the tears of an idiot would have to fertilize the seeds..and it was when he saw the fragile, sprouts, that he realised that all along ..HE was the idiot…

“Fool am I!” he cried in a mix of shame and ecstacy..

He rose and walked backwards, never taking his eyes off those seedlings. Stumbling clumsily toward the path, he turned suddenly and ran whooping down to get Primula to show her the good tidings. Indeed, it became one of those minor miracles well known in the district and many people gathered that day to witness that marvellous event. However, the next day, those seeds where just yesterday there were ten, the next day there were just six, though that in itself remained a mystery, I know old signora Rauni who had ten children herself, had pinched off four of those shoots ,

“Ten bambini are four too many Bertouli” she told me ,shaking her head.

And that is how Sfaccio and Primula came to have six beautiful children and grey hair before they were fifty! Allora signori, there is little that people will not do to be blessed with heartaches and happiness! But enough, there is wine for all!

” Alfredo! Biacchio!” come here and drink , don’t be shy, the good people have been listening to my story and now we celebrate! Alfredo smiled weakly at the two tourists, took a glass and called;”Saluti!”, then turned to Bertouli and spoke in dialect; “My god Berto, you’re the longest winded bullshit artist between here and hell saluti!”

The long days dying.

Image result for Paintings of workers marching in revolution pics.

When a ruling class, used to total dominance of governance, economics and military command has reached the end of its capacity and capability to perform those requirements listed above because of either complete corruption, debased ideology, or incompetent leadership…then one of two things can happen..: The class in question steps aside and relinquishes control of civil governance to the next capable social class with the enthusiasm and drive necessary for the job, or it collapses further into its own debased corruption and fights and claws its way to the inevitable bitter and bloody end via a series of political / social pogroms against its own people until it is brought down in a violent civil war. This is the example of history.

In the case of huge shifts in such class changes, like the end of the Patriarchal Roman Republic, a massive civil war ended the careers and lives of many aristocratic families. Likewise with the European collapse of the aristocratic rule of many nations there over many epochs of history. The ruling elites of aristocracy became so corrupt and entrenched in their behaviour of prestige, confected worship and exaggerated affluence and pomposity, they failed to stay connected with the “working coal-face” of their societies and a rising middle-class ended up becoming their “estate pawnbrokers” until they were beholden to the very class they scorned as aspiring upstarts with little knowledge of the affairs of the aristocratic state and less knowledge of table etiquette !

But it wasn’t long once that middle-class gained knowledge and command of the “wheels of finance” that they then started to call the shots on governance of industry…THEIR (the middle-class) interests being once less for pomp and circumstance than crude wealth. Soon, a bargain suitable to both parties was “signed” where the aristocrats would parade around in their sartorial splendour and suck on their afternoon teas while the middle-classes would now “manage” the affairs of state.

We here in Australia witnesssed a variety of this “cosy little arrangement” with the colluding of Fraser’s LNP coalition seeking out and conspiring with The British Crown representative in their foppish Governor General ; John Kerr formenting a coup against the democratically elected Labor government of the day.

These cosy little agreements did not necessarily just come about over tea and scones in a conservatory atmosphere, first there were many civil conflicts that cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of people and the destruction of whole cities in the vain attempt of the aristocracy to show the world that they “still had it” when it came to battle and glory …except they didn’t ..their corruption had reached even into their own delusions that ribbons, medals, parades and a flourish of golden epaulette would be enough to rout the enemy..

The fools died, as all fools die in their own vanity…in shame and disgrace…and so ended the era of aristocratic rule and the new era of middle-class governance and commerce began.

We peoples of the western, English language nations, have now lived under this rule of the middle-classes for more than two hundred years….in some cases; more than that number. But like the once mighty, unassailable aristocratic rulers, they too are now corrupted so completely in mind and body-corporate, that it has become time for that class to relinquish control of what they can no longer manage to the next class-in-line with both the enthusiasm and drive to take the nation to the next level of Social Concorde and fair governance…; the educated working/producing classes.

Of course, the now self-deluded egos of the middle-classes, serenaded to such giddy heights on its own aggrandisement of its intellect through select school education, select corporate management and select positions of political favour, cannot see past its own long nose to the pustulance of corruption on the tip. It’s inflated “born to rule” hubris now mimicking the most extreme egregious examples of Aristocratic pomp and buffoonery with such ostentatious displays of gross wealth and opulence best described in the classic literature of “Trimalchio’s Feast” on those riches literally snatched from the arms and tireless efforts of the working/producing classes of men, women and children of the world. Their greed, like the actual bodies of many of those gluttons of desire knows neither restraint nor corpulent limits.

Now, having reached the limits of political, corporate and personal decadence, the middle-classes have run out of time and exhausted the patience of those they wish to rule..The Western democracies are hungering for good, reliable social governance, a situation now impossible under a class that has made its collective ambition to control as much wealth of both fiscal and commodity as possible under its embracing of the stupid and gullible temptation of a “Neo-liberal” monetary philosophy…developed by its own sons and daughters, enlarged by its own financial houses and put in place by its own politicians to the detriment and destitution of those very people they totally rely upon for the riches they both aspire to and adore!

The middle-classes are a spent force ethically, morally and politically.

But rest assured, they will not go quietly…for even here in Australia, a country once proudly living under a secure “separation of powers” system that isolated certain essential authorities from the potentially corrupting influence of political lobbying, we now see this current Liberal / National Party, existing under what can only politely be called “governance” of the nation, going about systematically corrupting and planting persons of favour in all those vulnerable institutions for what can be considered no other reason than to enact both policy and institute laws that will brace that corrupt coalition against oversight and judgement of the people. The only way they are going to relinquish power could well be through civil disorder. Managed through those now corrupted institutions and given credible authority for those actions by both the planted operatives in the authorities inside government and then…most importantly AND most effectively…given absolution from guilt for such despicable actions by the blathering, educated to imbecility confederacy of more private-schooled middle-class aspirants and fellow travellers in the wider community.

No..my fellow workers and producers…these leeches on the backs of the producers and workers of western democracy will not go quietly…in many cases, like the tick firmly clamped to a dog’s ear and growing fat on the extracted blood it sucks from it’s living host, they will have to be extracted one at a time from governance, authority, corporation and utility…extracted and made redundant with what can be said, using their own language…:

“WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE” !

The Seven Weeping Men of Sedan.

Image result for Pic of a weeping man standing.

A stinker of a day in the middle of winter…rain, rain, rain…from the moment I started out on the delivery run to Swan Reach and beyond till I came toward home. One of those steady, drenching rains that every farmer dreams about and every delivery driver hates!…Standing with the sack-truck at the door of a house that forgot or didn’t know you were coming that day..rain trickling down your collar, wet package, wet delivery docket..unsigned..and a long way home….love it…good luck to you farmers…

Coming down Sedan Hill in that foggy rain was a tricky thing, all those twists and turns, but once on the flats, it was usually plain sailing. But this day it was all squinty-eye and flapping windscreen-wipers.

I was on the straight stretch coming toward Sedan…The window had fogged up a tad and I was wiping it with my hanky…was coming near the edge of town, there by Ziedel’s bridge when I saw a woman there at the bridge..she was leaning over the rail looking into the creek-bed…

“That’s weird” I thought…out in the pouring rain…I pulled up on the road and wound the window down..

“You right?” I called out…She turned to me, and for all the world she looked far from alright..she looked terrified.

“My child!”..she called back “ I have lost my boy”…and she turned once again to lean over the rail to look into the creek-bed. I thought it somewhat strange as there was no water in the creek..it takes one hell of a storm to bring water this far from the hills in those dry-weather creeks on the flats.

“Perhaps he’s hiding under the bridge?” I thought to assist..”And he doesn’t want to be found”.

The woman..aged about in her mid-twenties, attractive, with a full head of the most flaming red hair, just turned her terrified face to me and cried again in the same plaintive voice..

“My child!…I have lost my boy”….

“Just a minute, miss…I’ll pull over off the road and come give you a hand…” I drove off the highway and parked the van…But when I got out to assist the woman, not a willing participant for someone of my portly bulk I apologise not!.. I couldn’t see her..I couldn’t see anyone in that driving rain. I looked around..I walked to the bridge…but there was no-one there…not a soul.

“Hello!” I called…”Are you there?”…no answer..I was a tad flummoxed as to what to do..How did she just walk away?…I admit it was a heavy drenching rain that made even staring wide-eyed difficult, but how could I have missed her?..What more could I do?…actually, there was nothing I could do, now soaked as I was except get back in the van and drive away.

I did my round of deliveries and by the time I drove off the Swan Reach ferry heading back home, I was really pissed off!…my shirt was still clammy on my back against the driver’s seat…my hair still waxy and lank over my forehead…I wasn’t a cheery soul and when Sedan Hotel came in sight, it was with little hesitation that I pulled in for a quick shot of a warming fluid.

“Make it a double, China” I instructed the barman “ The old furnace needs a tad firing up”. He poured me a generous double of the old, crinkly-bottle of Beenleigh Rum with a wry smile. The atmosphere in the bar was sombre and dark…the day outside let little light through the windows and the electric light threw a dull illumination onto the bar top.

“Been out in the weather?” he motioned to my wet clothes as he rang up the till. I put the glass on the bar-mat and gave a shiver of satisfaction.

“Been out on the road, you mean”…I replied…”this” and I plucked the damp shirt off my chest ” is the fault of one of your local ladies”…I took another slug of that hotel’s wonderful libation.

“ And what lady would that be?” the barman heaved his chest in a silent laugh.

“ Redhead…out in the rain”..I now sipped the rum..” down at the bridge there just out of town” I continued to fatten out the situation…” out in the bloody pouring rain looking for her kid”…I sneered.

There was a marked silence now in the bar, and several of the other male patrons suddenly looked to me…I felt I was being doubted..

“What?…what?…” I opened my hands at them questioningly..” How do you think I got so wet?…you think I was kicking a footy down the road for fun or something?..” I gulped  the remainder of my drink and turned to go..

“Hold on..” the barman said “ A redhead?…at Ziedels bridge?” the barman quizzed me.

“I don’t know who’s bridge it is…but yes..a redhead..just there at the bridge as you come into town from the Barossa..a redhead, in the pouring rain….” They all just stared at me..” There at the bridge, calling out that she had lost her child…no!..hang on …her son!…that’s it…her son!” …You could’a heard a pin drop.

“ .’My child…I’ve lost my boy!’ she called” I looked one to the other of the staring eyes. The barman broke the silence..

“Did she look like this woman?” and the barman placed a small, framed photograph on the bar in front of me….and there she was, sure as I saw her just a couple of hours ago…a beautiful young woman with the most wonderful locks of flaming red hair…THAT, I couldn’t miss…there was name under the portrait..I read it out quietly..

“ Cherry Holmstrom”…I read..” Cherry?…it sounds like a fruit rather than a name…but yes that’s her alright.” I tapped the photo…”why..is she related to you or something?”

The barman placed the photo back into an enclave above the counter.

“Her name really was “Cherie”…but with that red hair and her sweet looks, she got called “Cherry”..as a kind of affectionate name by the local men.” The barman finished with a sad turning of his head.

“Was? “ I asked “What do you mean; WAS?…has something happened to her since this morning?” I asked with I must admit an unbelieving chuckle on my lips…But you could have knocked me over with a feather when he answered…

“She’s been dead at least sixty years now.” And he stared dead-pan at me. “sixty years ago today as a matter of fact”.

“Riiiight” I said quietly, looking from one of those locals to another in turn..”Now it’s my turn to ask some questions..but first you better get me another of that drink I just had.” And I reached for my wallet.

The barman waved my proffered note away…

“This one’s on the house” and he placed a big, fat tumbler of ‘Crinkly ’ in front of me. He then leant toward me in a confiding manner..one arm on the bar and he spoke softly..

“Cherry was a local girl..you know..” and he gave me an exaggerated wink “ You see these other blokes here..?” I counted them out…there were six of them..an even half dozen. “ They all went out with her at one time or the other…on different days..but around the same time..and though they knew that Cherry was seeing other chaps, they didn’t let on to each other…You see, Cherry was one hell of a good looker and those sorts are a scarcity out in this part of the world…Oh there are any number of good, solid women, but Cherry…well..she was something special…”

I had been looking at those other old men there as the barman spoke, and I could see they all had eyes that looked as if they had been weeping…strange..I would have on any other day put it down to the dust in the air..except today it was this drenching rain.

“ So all these blokes here were once the boyfriend of this Cherry?”

“Yes” . the barman answered.

“And they never confronted her or each other about the situation?” I asked.

“No…because, you see..they all loved her and they didn’t want to lose her…so when one said he was going to see his girl that night, though the other knew who it was and would ask..: “and is that Cherry?” the one would answer ..: “No..It’s her sister” and the other would nod in recognition of the denial…and so they all got to continue to go out with Cherry..and she was happy to accommodate them..each in his turn…and she would arrange to meet up with them at the “seven cross roads” junction…about a mile out on the east side of town. That’s how it eventually got to be named “The Seven Sisters” junction, because they all at one time or the other admitted to going out with “the sister”….you see.”

“But tell me,” I leaned in closer “Why are their eyes all red like that?…it looks like they have been crying…?”

The barman looked to the men for what seemed a long time..then he turned to me..

“That’s probably because they have been weeping for the loss of her this last sixty years”.

I thought he was having me on..and I giggled a tad..but he looked dead-pan.

“Kevin!” the barman called to one of the men “You went ‘walking’ with Cherry, didn’t you?”

“Too right”. The man called Kevin answered “But not to the end of the road..” and his eyes looked like they watered up a little at the thought. The barman went on to me with a soft tone..

“ That’s because she chose another one of them and married him…she then became pregnant..like she was waiting for the right time..”

“But hang on”…I countered “ I actually SAW that woman there at the bridge this morning “I called to her and she replied that bit..about..about losing her child..her boy….I KNOW what I saw!” I insisted…then I settled..” I know what I heard!”.

“Yes…she lost her child with a miscarriage on the night of the storm.”

The barman decided he’d settle it…he called to one of the weeping men..

“Jack, mind the bar for a bit , will you?” and to me he whispered “C’mon…show me just where you saw the woman…”

I finished the drink and we went to my van…The barman introduced himself as Frank and we shook hands on it…The rain was still bucketing down like it was never going to ease up..

On the way to the bridge, Frank told me of that night’s events sixty years ago..

“ A wild, wild night with one of the worse storms in the district…much like this one..the rains in the hills being much heavier, sent a wall of storm water down the usually dry creek beds and Ziedel’s Bridge was washed away…the blokes from the town..those fellows you saw back there in the bar were all there at the bridge getting ready to set up road blocks against any traffic..But then they looked into the driving rain up the road..They could see a motorcycle’s light coming from the opposite side of the bridge down the road out of the driving rain..

“Who’s the fool riding out in this rain?” Clarrie yelled..and then they realised when they heard the familiar note of the exhaust of Cherry’s “BSA Bantam” motorcycle..

“It’s Cherry!” one of the men cried “for God’s sake warn her about the bridge!” and they all ran toward her down the road, waving their arms..but whether it was the driving rain or the whipped up sleet, she didn’t see their warning and they watched helpless as she plunged onto the washed out bridge and into the raging torrent. All the men rushed to the bridge to rescue her..

They did eventually get her out, but she was pinned under her motorbike and the washed down debris for quite some time, so that she almost drowned. And when they finally got her onto the road, there was blood everywhere running from her lower body..They thought at first that she was injured from the accident, but it was a miscarriage she was having..she was losing her baby..for she was heavily pregnant at the time.

Cherie looked down at the blood in horror, for she immediately knew what was happening..

“My child!…I’ve lost my boy!” she cried…and she kept crying over and over that she had lost her boy..

The men tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t be and she tore from their arms and with a mighty effort, ran toward the bridge calling out ..:’I’ve lost my boy!…I’ve lost my child in the waters!” and she flung herself into the muddy, murky torrent…and this time the men couldn’t find her…and she drowned there along with her lost child… though in reality, she couldn’t have known then that it was a boy..though it did turn out to be that when they retrieved the body later…”

We had arrived at the bridge and I stopped the van and pulled on the handbrake..

“Well, she must have been one hell of a woman to keep six blokes on the hop at the one time”…I snorted…”Here, Frank..put this cap on..it’s pissing down and you might as well keep that head dry.” And I handed Frank a cap..” I got this hoodie” I said.

Frank was about to step out of the cabin ..he paused and then said..:

“Seven…there were seven men..There was the one she married and whose child died along with her that night.”

I was a little taken aback by his words..

“So who was the seventh?” I asked…Frank was already out of the van and he answered just before he closed the door..
“He was the biggest fool of them all, for it was he sent her out in that storm to go to the hotel to get him a flagon of wine…It was ME!…Me, the biggest fool of them all”. And Frank looked to me and he was weeping even more that those other six men back at the hotel..he then slammed the door shut.

I jumped out of the van, paused and did my hoodie jacket up and went to meet Frank at the back of the van..And I tell you as true as I stand here before you..he was gone!..There was no-one there, and what was just a few hours ago a dry creek-bed was now a raging torrent..and the rain..the rain..

“Frank!….Frank!” I called..but there was no answer…then I saw that cap I had given him swirling in an eddy near the edge of the bridge…I sincerely believed he had lost his mind and jumped into the wild waters…

I panicked..I looked about wildly for a quick time then I remembered the others there at the hotel and I jumped back into the van and spun those wheels in my rush to get back to the pub to get help..I parked the van in the street, not even worrying about it. I rushed through the door into that bar expecting to see those half dozen dour fellows quietly sitting there…instead, I saw colour, light and a mixture of men and women laughing and drinking.. a juke-box in the corner was playing a loud song…

I must have looked a sight standing there soaking wet, wild-eyed and in a state of shock, for the barmaid and several patrons looked at me with raised eyebrows..

“Hell man! ..” the barmaid exclaimed “have YOU been sweatin’!” and they all laughed and laughed…and indeed, they had every right to, for when I looked to the windows, all I could see was sunshine..no rain..no wild afternoon..just laughter and sunshine…

I did a complete, slow three-sixty turn around of the room and just stared and stared while I tried to work out what I was seeing…Realising that there was something weirdly strange going on, I made some lame excuse saying I fell in the river while working my boat and quickly made my escape. I drove from that place with my mind very troubled and confused..but I drove and drove away like a man hunted…and even now, even if you doubt what I have just told you, I say it is as true as the day I was born…..

I swear it!

 

 

 

The Middle Class..: A complete failure at attempted civil governance.

 

The experiment is over, it is done, and the results are in and they demonstrate in no uncertain terms that the age of middle-class management of all structures of governance and social security have failed and failed completely and dismally.

In all the major spheres of English speaking democracies..: The UK, The USA and Australia, the middle-classes have held control of all major decision and authoritarian arms of governance for more than two hundred years. They have both controlled and made the laws of jurisprudence, war and defence, the modes of finance, production and distribution of commerce, the ways and means of educational management and the management of man-power training and distribution of the workforce and arbitrated on the levels of wages and conditions of their populace…..and they have failed in all these spheres of control.

From the very first, it could be seen and indeed it was seen and warned against by any number of worthy people, from the lowest to the highest educated that the bleedin’ obvious intent to use a countries resources, natural environment, population and accrued commonwealth to centralise all industry under one policy of “production toward profit” was going to be a massive gamble…as indeed it was , and as with most forms of gambling, the winning hands were held by those who dealt the cards…The rising power of the middle-classes always made sure it was they who dealt the cards.

When we look to Australia, we see a upper-middle class fumbling and failing to deliver and secure many if not ALL responsibilities of governance and civic enterprise.. And it has been the middle-class who has constructed and put in place through its control or connivance all these governing principles…Let us get that straight!..It has been the middle-class and ONLY the middle-class that have made and instituted these principles..not the working classes…NEVER the working-classes..it is only the middle-class who is responsible and who has to answer for this massive failure of management of administration.

In resource management, it has been left to the private sector to dig out, ship out , smelt or filter the major mineral resources of the nation. These resources were rarely discovered or “proved” by the private sector though…THAT was always done by a government Department of Mines. It was this government department that explored, drilled test holes and did the initial analysis that proved the existing lodes of minerals around the nation…the private sector then expanded on the proved deposits and capitalised on the lodes. It was this department that discovered and proved the existing resources of artesian water supplies that the private sector, be it food or commodity production draws upon.

The means to transport these commodities from points of production to ports of export or markets of manufacture were always supplied by government transport facilities, be they roads or rail for heavy industry.

The lines of communication via telephone or cable were put in place by taxpayer owned government authorities.

Likewise the energy production to supply power to the mine-head and ports or smelting sites…These power stations were all government owned, supplied with fuel and delivered mechanisms of energy to the private enterprise facilities for their use.

In all those other essential utilities that make for a stable society..: Water supply, Sewerage and civic engineering, Health, Education, Social Services for every citizen regardless of status or wealth, these services were worked, maintained and delivered by everyday workers in a national interest infrastructure investment that suited the vast majority and delivered to that vast majority ; Hospital and maternity services, public education, even a moment of free tertiary education, a well-managed immigration program that delivered the multi-cultural ideal that we once appreciated and still benefit from…there was employment and apprentice training that was secure and permanent through those government infrastructure facilities. There were taxpayer funded social endowments for those who warranted it or needed it for the public good..for the social good.

. . .and then came the Private-Enterprise Profiteers . . .

These Middle-class, elite, private-schooled educated speculators, embracing the psychotic philosophies of degenerates, losers and opportunists, The Wakefield, the Rand, The Hayek and the Friedman acolytes..saw profit to be made in the destabilising and disruption of a once smooth-running bureaucracy and civil structured society. So once they gained power through the implementation of a fear-based electoral program delivered by their associates in the Main-stream press…mostly from the Murdoch enterprises..they set about selling off those reliable infrastructures and regulators on the knowing and deceitful ideal that the “private sector” could deliver the same services faster, more efficient and cheaper…I don’t think I need demonstrate in ANY sector where these services have been privatised how much of a gross, complete and abysmal failure the private sector has been.

 

“ Wars and panics on the stock exchange,

machinegun fire and arson,

banckruptcies, warloans,

starvation, lice, cholera and typhus :

Good growing weather for the House of Morgan”  (USA..John Dos Passos).

 

In Banking, there was once both a federal bank and each State has its own bank…these financial houses were a good and stable foil against the more rapacious “free enterprise banks” and provided finance and dependable home loans to a workforce reliant on honesty and integrity to secure for them those monetary needs way beyond the average persons understanding of accountancy and book-keeping…With the fumbling miss-management of these government banks…more likely on unwritten instruction from their free-enterprise cousins to “waste the structure”…these banks were to fail and then be sold off in a fire-sale auction to those very banks that managed their demise.

All these above civil structures, all those once government owned and managed industries and infrastructure that were turned over to the private sector in what must be seen as an ultimate betrayal of public trust and in some cases like the NBN., a complete treasonous action!..In all these cases, it has been instituted and managed by the middle-classes..no matter it be a Liberal/National party governance or a Labor Party governance…it has always been a move by the middle-classes of both those political institutions whilst in a position of power. Never has the working-class been in sole position of decision making power to oversee the destruction or disposal of valuable or social necessity infrastructure or institutions….NEVER!

The Middle-class has failed. The middle-class no longer has either the moral, ethical or intellectual capability to manage governance. The middle-class cannot even draw in the more reckless and irrational of its speculators who are now hell-bent in destroying the last resources of the natural environment in its endless and unchangeable rush of “production for profit” ideology. The middle-class is depleted of vigour for a new vision for humanity…it is devoid of any sense of morals or ethics in its now base and exposed religions…it is wanting in its capacity to regulate the greed of its shareholders and investors who have driven the price of the basic necessities of life almost beyond the capacity of a worker’s wages..IF..that worker even had a full-time, permanent job..The ideal of a “normal’ family lifestyle now of little more reality than the fantasies delivered by commercial producers over the streaming services of a debased and unreliable communications network that we were assured would be ; “Better – Faster – Cheaper”…

Yes..the middle-classes are now a defunct class…the equivalent of “trailer-trash” in the social status stakes. They must take responsibility for the visible destruction of a once stable, reliable, all-inclusive multicultural society…and they must voluntarily step down from that failed leadership position and hand the reins over to a now better educated, more organised and vigorous working class, who could now be relied upon to deliver those services in governance, regulation, industry and training that will once more bring a sense of decency and stability to this volatile and divided nation.

The middle-class, in ALL orders of management is now incompetent…NOW..: “Step down or be taken down!”….for going by historical example, sooner than you think, the choice may no longer be yours.