Everybody loves a parade...

I mentioned in my last blog that I led a goat up the main street of my town in a rodeo procession. To date I have probably been in fifteen or so processions in my life. Processions are the norm in the country.  You have a rodeo, you have a procession. You have an agricultural show, you have a procession.

Everybody loves a parade.

There is something quite wonderful growing up knowing that at some point in the year, maybe twice, you are going to be sitting on the flatbed of a semi-trailer, probably dressed up as cowboy or an ear of corn, waving at the passing crowd. If you are lucky you might even get the job of pegging lollies at them as well.

So, at this point, if you are saying to yourself “what the fuck is she talking about?” you may not have grown up in a country town. In fact, in my 20’s working in Sydney I once drifted off into lunchroom reverie about processions.  People stared blankly.

These people had never been in a procession. 

They had never threaded crepe paper through the spokes of their bikes, chucked on their Brownies uniform and ridden, at wobbly-slow speed, up the main street dodging the horse shit from the Pony Club entry in front.

They had never donned their tutu’s and Jiffies and twirled up the main drag waving to the people spilling out of the pub windows.

These people hadn’t sat in a vintage car, or on a fire engine, or a ute covered in Rotary or Lion's Club banners, pegging lollies at people.

These people hadn’t lived!

One thing I regret about my son growing up in the city is that he won’t be a part of this phenomenon. Unlike his mother, he won’t cross-dress as a priest on his school’s 75th Anniversary float (all girls school) with a school pipe band ringing in his ears.

He won’t swelter as a witch in 40-degree heat on his kindy float wondering, if he faints, will the procession stop or will he be trampled by Chainsaw, the prize rodeo bull.

The poor little bugger won’t just dress up like a clown, get on his bike and ride down the main street for no reason than the fact that he can…

And peg lollies at people. 

"You smell like vegemite"...

When I was a seven, one of my best friends was an old drunk named Col. It is pretty unkind to label him an old drunk, but that is how people in the town I grew up in saw him.

My Dad owned a huge old corner building in the town, which housed our family shoe shop.  Atop was a maze of small flats; 21 in all. They were high ceilinged and bare, other than a few old silky oak cupboards, sideboards and washstands.  The walls had yellowed over time, with age and nicotine.  They were not so fancy and rent was low.

Because of the price and proximity to the pubs, and the fact that no one else would have them, Dad was able to let them pretty constantly to older, single men that had a problem with grog. 

My sister and I would finish school and walk down to the shop to wait for a lift home when Dad shut the shop around 5 o’ clock.  So it was usually 2 hours of kicking around and wandering about the huge old joint.  I would play in the car park, collecting broken bits of glass into a shoebox.  I would delight in finding a piece of glass that wasn’t amber; an old piece of cracked plate, the red glass of a rear light from a prang, but that didn’t happen often.  Mostly it was the remnants of "dead soldiers" that didn’t make it to the bin.

I knew the old men to keep away from, usually the ones that were well on their way by 3pm, or the few nasty old types who would hiss at me for running in the hallways and on the stairs.  But then there was Col.

Col had family but they didn’t really want to have much to do with him.  His sons would sometimes drop around but I never knew them.  These were stiff, mannish meetings with few words and uncomfortable silences.  Dad has since said that Col was an abusive and violent drunk and that is the reason his family left him alone.

For me, Col was a nice friend to have.  He didn’t hiss or get mad.  He was usually fresh out of the shower at 4pm and had neatly slicked back hair – ready for the pub.  He always wanted to know how school had gone that day or whether our teachers were funny.  My fondest memories are of sitting up at Col’s laminex and chrome table recounting my stories of the day as he made me a sandwich or Sao's with cheese.  He had a red and white gingham tablecloth with white crochet edges that I loved. 

As we chatted, Col would crack his first stubby of the evening and I remember thinking “You smell like vegemite.  Your house smells like vegemite.”  I guess that was just the old stale malt smell of spilt beer and over-cooked dinners.

Col asked Dad if he could keep a goat out the back and because the grass was getting out of control.  Dad said okay.  Col loved the goat.  Her name was May and she seemed huge to me.  She and I had a run in once when she bit me when I was feeding her some lettuce Col gave me.  I still recall how much getting your 7-year-old finger ground in between goat’s molars throbs.

During rodeo week one year, Col made a coat for May out of two old hessian sacks and painted on one side “Don’t Be A Goat Wear Style Shoes!”.  Style Shoes was the name of my Dad’s shop.  I was pretty proud leading that goat up the main drag in the rodeo procession in my new jeans and red T-shirt.  Col was cheering me on from the footpath.  He was clapping with his hands above his head and his ciggie drooping from the corner of his mouth.

Looking back I am almost shocked that Dad let me spend afternoons with an old man who these days wouldn’t even be able to look sideways at a little girl.  But I love that he did.  I love that he trusted that things were going to be fine.

Col eventually moved on and I don’t know what happened to him.  I guess that he is no longer alive.  I hope his family went to his funeral.  I would have liked to.  

Maybe May and I could have gone to the cemetery and, when everyone was gone, I could have throw a handful of red glass and broken plate bits onto the coffin and fed a wreath to May, remembering to keep my fingers out of the way.