Well, it’s 2010. My Get Fuzzy day calendar ended, and Australians have never heard of Get Fuzzy. So I need to buy myself a new calendar. Other than that, I sort of forgot to come up with a resolution for this year.
I went to visit Len Traynor out in Wentworthville, way over on the western side of Sydney, on Sunday. His wife, Ira, is Indonesian; Jenny and Chinga, two of her four sisters were visiting. Len is quite a character, very good natured and a bit portentous, with a big white mustache and enormous eyebrows over twinkly eyes, like Santa Claus if Santa was Aussie. Len builds models of Civil War cannons and pack wagons, complete with Barbie-sized Civil War soldiers in uniform, all with big moustaches and faraway sort of gazes. They are incredible, and he explained how the Charleston historical museum paid for his airfare to the States in return for one of his models. In addition, Len has met Vivian Leigh, and had a brief film career of his own, Errol-Flynn style. He insists that Ira married him for his remarkable resemblance to Brad Pitt. Ira, who has clearly heard this joke thousands of times, ignored a lot of his comments and spoke quietly and sweetly, in halting English, when Len let her get a word in. Her sisters did not speak English at all, but listened to everything very carefully and giggled when Len or I addressed them. During lunch, one of the sisters, Chinga, shyly gave me a little package with a lovely Indonesian scarf, white with blue and yellow flowers. Then Ira leapt up, hurried out of the room and returned with a book, "50 fashionable ways to wear a scarf." I opened to a page at random and wrapped the scarf according to the photos, and apparently it was a success. Anyway it kept my neck warm.
Ira cooked a sort of chicken casserole for lunch and excused herself repeatedly, saying that she didn't know how to cook, because back in Indonesia her servants did all the cooking for her. But the chicken was excellent, and she followed it up with "fairy cakes", the Aussie kids' cupcakes with pink frosting and sprinkles on top and cream inside, like a Hostess cupcake. Ira and I and the blushing Indonesian sisters-in-law listened to Len postulate about the state of the economy and ate our fairy cakes solemnly, with knife and fork. Then Ira had to feed the chooks, and I followed her into the backyard, first to meet Len's Rottweiler--a gorgeous exuberant nine-month-old who managed to plant one paw squarely on the back of my white t-shirt. Beyond the dog pen was a low, roomy cage with one happy chicken ("Poppy Two," the original Poppy having died some months previous) and three squeaking chicks. Two black and white-checkered hens were running about the yard. Ira and I squatted on our heels and cood at the chicks and at Ira's two wild budgies, which Len had managed to capture in the backyard. I rearranged the scarf so it covered the pawprint in the middle of my back.
Wentworthville is a sad little place, beyond the Aboriginal district of Sydney (Redfern). It is right next to Westmead, which contains the best hospital in Australia, apparently, as well as a nice park, and some small university or other, but that's about it for kudos. It's all low buildings, scruffy lawns, Indian convenience stores and Sudanese refugees...a pretty impoverished, sad, and dangerous place. Len has lived there since he was a kid, some sixty years ago, and he has watched the old buildings, including the nunnery and chapel, torn down and replaced with ugly low-income apartments. When I told my friend Darryl that I was going out to Wentworthville, he looked at me like I was crazy, then told me "whatever you do, don't stay until dark." With that dire warning in mind, I made sure to be on the train home at 5 pm. But at the first train stop, still way out west, from the train I could hear shouting and screaming. All the passengers leaned out and watched; a huge man was having some sort of tantrum on the platform; luckily he didn't seem to be hurting anyone and the train left soon. Len wants me to come back soon and I might, but carefully.
Today (Monday) was my first "back to work" day. Weather has been spotty, with lots of rain. My friend Craig took this photo, while we bodysurfed down at Tamarama Beach, literally in between rainstorms.
I am reading A Town Like Alice and absolutely riveted. Australian history is so amazing. Who even knew this country existed, for heaven's sake? Much less was involved in World War II? Am trying to assuage my ignorance, but really it's humbling.
Not to get anyone’s hopes up…particularly my own…but my friend Darryl is trying to get me tickets to a cricket match tomorrow. If he can sneak me in, I'll have to pretend to be his assistant (he's a photographer) but provided I dress all in black, pretend to smoke a cigarette, and carry some tripods and things (just like a real photographer!), I will get to sit in the VIP section. We’ll see…
