Oh how time flies, ten years have passed
with many changes in my life.
Moved home. Sold our Ritchie Ave home of 21 squares to a couple from NSW, and bought a home in Whitford Street, Upper Burnie. Close to a Supermarket, Post Office/news agency, Hotel-Motel, Bottle shop, Cafe/bakery, Butcher, and a Baker's shop.
I had a good friend and tormentor who lived at Shearwater, this gentleman Geoff Quinn has since passed away, but he was a musician who played a twelve-string bass guitar alongside, Graham Best around the pubs and clubs of Tasmania. Besides playing and singing, he was capable of producing poems some of which I will post.
The first was a tribute he paid me, and one I'll never forget.
JUST
ONE OF MY MATES
I’ve met a lot of fellows in the years I’ve knocked around
And as you’ve often heard – ‘It takes all kinds’
The doers and the thinkers, teetotalers and the
drinkers,
And those lazy bastards on their fat behinds.
I’ve seen them all from time to time, in every walk of life
The good ones and the bad, and those between
Some rogues you wouldn’t trust alone with anybody’s wife
And others that you know are just plain mean.
Some you’d call acquaintances, yet others may be friends
And then there’s those you simply love to hate,
And maybe if you’re lucky - just every now and then,
You’ll run across a bloke that you’ll call mate.
It’s such a bloke I write about - a chap I met one day
Whilst waiting in a car-park for my crew
He was working for the other mob, but wandered up to
say
He thought a change in sides was overdue.
And so this friendship started - two strangers there at dawn
Not knowing much, but ever keen to learn
About the other’s point of view - the place where we
were born -
The worldly woes for which we shared concerns?
Although a bit my senior, and well past the age to quit,
He works as hard as any man I’ve seen
And although his hair has slipped a bit, he’s
definitely as fit
As some I’ve met - still growing - in their teens!
Not content to work each day just mending soles and heels
He still enjoys the challenge, in his trade.
A fitter summoned forth to check the paper-making
reels,
Or fix some broken thing that someone made.
And when he’s got a minute free, he’s often found ‘on line’
Or seeking of some help from ‘Ma’am Wabbit’
He does his best to help them all, donating of his
time
But for getting in the way - he’s got a habit.
He’s been a hoofer, trod the boards, and raced a car or two,
He’s volunteered his time for those in need
A tourist guide, an editor - that’s just to name a few
For this ‘old chap’ it’s giving that’s the creed.
His point of view is legendary, no ‘B…S…” will he stand,
It’s either black or else it’s very white,
He challenges the ones who dare to threaten our great
land
And spreads the word on what he knows is right.
He’s often keen to have his say, but listens just as well
And there’s little doubt for whom he casts his vote
He’s a walking contradiction, but for those who know
him well
There’s no one who can match this grey “Old Goat”
“Troubador” alias Geoff J Quinn (Copyright) 25th February 2008
When one
travels over a familiar road day after day you tend not to notice what is
around you apart from the other silly people who like yourself drive tin
missiles. However our “Troubadour” this day saw something that stuck in his
mind till he got to his office, and then the words started pouring forth.
(John
Medwin “The Old Goat”)
THE
PERFECT CROP
I’d watched them planting plastic bags
– in paddocks, row by row
And I’d travelled past them every day,
but never seen them grow
And so I took a closer look, before the
bags were tattered
And found out that it’s what’s inside,
and not the bag that mattered.
Within each bit of plastic tube stood
three short bits of wood
Each piece just like the other bits –
cut square and firmly stood
And that is when it hit me like “a bolt
out of the blue”
This bloke had planted tooth-picks, and
from these the stakes had grew.
I wondered at the value of a crop of
wooden stakes
Too short to make a handle for your
average garden rake
But when I quizzed the farmer on the reason
for his crop
He gazed at me suspiciously – just like
I was a cop.
“See here young man” he said to me,
“I’ve searched both far and wide
To find a crop that I could grow – and
market well, with pride.
Not something that’s illegal, or a
plant that’s hard to grow
But something nice and easy that
returns a bit of dough.
So first I checked the markets out, to
see what was in need
And then I split a match in three –
that’s where I got my seed.
I stuck the splinters in a pot and
watered them each day
With loving care I tended them – my
crop was under way.
The first year all I got was sticks –
they went to light the fire
But then they really got away and each
week grew much higher.
The second year I thinned them out –
you’ve got to do things proper
And quite a few I used myself – the
rest I sold as droppers.
The third year really set me up – a
quite amazing crop
And David Foster bought a heap – you’ve
seen the blocks he chops!
The rest I sold as straining posts, a
good six feet in length
And every one who used them praised
their even size and strength.
But that’s not what I’m on about – I’ve
yet to reach my goal
And grow the crop I really want – the
perfect Hydro pole
But this year’s crop is looking good –
in fact it’s quite fantastic
And that is why I’ve wrapped it up in
these odd bits of plastic”.
So now you’ll know what’s going on when
next you see a crop
Of plastic bags, and just like me, I
hope that you will stop
And ask the farmer for a clue – if you
should be that bold,
And just like me, I’ll guarantee – I
bet that you’ll get told !!
© Copyright - Geoff Quinn
2003 All rights reserved
When I received this from
Geoff, I chided him over it and made a silly comment “Next you will write up a
yarn about a packed of corn flakes.”
A few hours later “Ode
to a Packet of Cornflakes” appeared Geoff met the challenge head on.
That was some job he had and held to the bitter end.
Ode to a
Packet of Cornflakes
It’s not because I like them much or relish their soft crunch I seldom break my fast on them, nor dine on them for lunch. But sometimes later in the day – like after tea - at night I grab a bowl at supper-time – that’s when they taste just right.
The cardboard box sits hidden on the pantry cupboard shelf Behind a bag
of wheaten flour, that raises by itself Beside a jar of honey and above some
tins of fish It sits there waiting patiently, to grant my every wish.
No fancy tub or well-worn tin contains these magic flakes A plastic bag
inside a box is really all it takes Provided that the bag is sealed, quite
tightly – with a peg They’ll keep for weeks quite happily, until you reach the
dregs.
And when the time is right for me – the craving’s at its height I open
up the cupboard door and turn on kitchen lights. I then retrieve an old soup
bowl and spoon from out the drawer And pour the little blighters in – that
don’t fall on the floor!
Next I add some sugar – not too much but just enough Then shake the bowl
to hide it, so the cook won’t see the stuff A pint of milk in which they’ll
swim is followed by some cream Then half a sliced banana – a snack on which to
dream.
The milk is cold, the creams divine, the little flakes all crunch A
supper fit for royalty on which I’ll slowly munch Then toddle slowly off to bed
- my appetite well sated As happy as a pig could be – in fact you’d say
“Elated”
And all because a crop of corn was rolled out flat and thin By Mr.
Kellogg and his mates, before he packed them in A cardboard box with writing on
– an oversize big K As nice to eat at supper-time as at the break of day.
©Geoff Quinn 14.1.2008
Then a health decline, two wonky knees, and hips, and a trick back that has returned due to the loss of support from the muscles around the lower spine. The end result was two serious falls that landed me in the Hospital for several days each. The first visit was to determine why I was having them. Lose weight, and control fluid intake they said. I never have had a big fluid intake, but I was limited to 1.5 litres a day. The trouble is and was, that anything that was liquified was included ie., ice cream, custard, soup etc. Medications? OMG! Morning, noon, and night, but hey, if I can get out of bed in the mornings, it will be another day I have cheated the Grim Reaper. 
I joined a Men's Coffee Group I think in 2015. These guys came from all sorts of backgrounds, professions, and employment. It has a Christian base, but no one is turned away if they wish to join us on a Wednesday morning. No one is judgemental of each other, and the banter and humour are unbelievable. The only way we lose members is by dying or moving away from the Wynyard - Burnie area.
At eighty-five I handed my driver's license in due to the loss of sensation in my feet and transferred my mobility to a mobility scooter, regaining a modicum of independence to do my own thing when needed, or required. In seven months, I clocked up 376 km and is one of 18 that get around Burnie and the suburbs. Apart from that a walker and walking sticks are the order of the day.
To see that I could actually get around safely around the CBD of a town or city, I fitted a hanger for a stroller/walker to the back of the scooter. With winter approaching, the amount of use may be impeded as I don't have the advantage of being able to keep the weather off myself. Just give me a fine day, and out I'll go somewhere.
I must say a huge thank you to Ray Parry who collects me on wet days to go to the men's coffee group meeting, also to out-of-town venues in Wynyard and Penguin.
