Glyn Parry

Bushfire Season

2011-05-25T23:10:00.000+08:00

It's winter now, but the summer just gone will live in the memory of anyone who grew up in the Kelmscott hills, near Perth, Western Australia. The day we always feared would come arrived without warning. Sparks from an angle grinder ignited the tinderbox dry bushland, and in the next 24 hours dozens of homes were destroyed.

On a recent trip to Perth my father showed me the damage. It was surreal to see street after street, all familiar yet changed forever, and the architecture gone. You felt like a trespasser. You felt like you didn't belong.

This is an unforgiving country we live in.

Back To The Blog

2011-05-25T22:11:00.002+08:00

Been a long while since I blogged here. Too many distractions, I guess: facebook, twitter, and all the rest. But there's an honesty about the simple design and minimalism of blogger that I like. Maybe, maybe.

Congratulations, Jon Doust

2009-04-23T02:44:00.003+08:00

My very good friend Jon Doust has written a stunner! It's seeringly honest and triumphantly funny, and I heartily recommend it. (Oh, I already did, on the cover.) Smiles. Jon, you did it! I tip my hat to you.

10 Books I Wrote For Children & YA

2009-03-07T22:34:00.002+08:00

Happy Birthday, Dad

2009-02-17T23:42:00.003+08:00

Here's a photo of my father when he was eighteen. I won't say how many years ago, but I will say he was quite the handsome one! Happy birthday, Dad.

The Big Piano

2009-02-08T20:44:00.007+08:00

Sandra has always been a fan of that Tom Hanks' movie, Big. So when I told her there was a toy shop near Central Park where she could relive one of her favourite scenes, she just had to have a go.

Then she discovered the dragon!

Me, I discovered all the different Monopoly sets you can buy, including the Peanuts version.

The best discovery was a whole section just for the Muppets! This toy shop rocks.

Old Bones

2009-02-07T23:37:00.006+08:00

Here I am visiting New York in January. The first day was sunny and crisp.

The next day it decided to snow.

Inside the Natural History Museum it was old bones! I had fun. New York has something for everyone. You could never be bored there!

Time To Pick Up The Pen

2009-02-07T22:20:00.007+08:00

After a year in which I gave myself completely to the job of school principal, alas I now find myself out of the job. I have no comment to make, just a promise to myself to return to my first passion--my writing--and to turn out a good read for my readers. Last year was terrific; this year will be even more so. I have a new novel to complete.

Tasmania

2008-10-04T17:10:00.012+08:00

Today I thought I would add photos from my recent Tasmania trip. Choosing to stay clear of Hobart and Launceston proved to be a wise decision. It brought me closer to the Tasmania many don't see: sleepy little towns with their historic buildings. And, of course, bridges. Here are two of my favourites.

Sometimes you have to stop the car and just line up the shot. This roof decoration was so unexpected, and I'm glad I chanced upon it.

Here's where I slept one night. Yes, it was very cold, but the owners prepared a roaring fire for me, which was lovely. Haunted? I'm not sure, but there is a single grave plot in the back garden, for an 11-year-old boy.

Walking is always an adventure. Here's the reward for leaving the hire car and just following your nose. This is what I love about Tasmania. You stumble across the past and it's impossible to ignore. I wonder how many convict hands fashioned these walls?

In the middle of nowhere, on a bitterly cold morning and no sun to be seen, I rounded the bend and there it was: a cemetery. Where was the town? I have no idea. Walking around the gravestones, surrounded only by bushland, it was all very creepy. I didn't stay long.

Finally, a school that definitely hasn't been open for quite some time. What a beautiful building, and I thank the powers that be for not bulldozing it to rubble. Let's hope this school will still be standing a hundred years from now.

Variety Club Geraldton

2008-08-26T22:52:00.015+08:00

When you see a car dressed up like this, expect the unexpected.

And when you see a car shooting fireworks into the sky, get ready for some serious fun.

Variety Club Geraldton might just be the wackiest, noisiest bunch of kooks I know. They certainly put the fun into fundraising.

This crazy golfer is actually one of Western Australia's most respected lawyers...and a terrific person to get to know.

Visit their website and you'll discover Variety Club Geraldton is committed to maintaining the ‘wow’ factor in everything they do. They're not kidding.

Everyone has a great time for a good cause.

You better believe it! The children get so excited when these busy bees buzz into their school for fun and games!

This clown is actually a doctor who works in a children's hospital. He is the nicest person you could ever wish to meet.

Thank you, Variety Club Geraldton. Long may you put sunny smiles on the faces of children everywhere. In my book, you rock!

Driving Around Tasmania

2008-08-24T16:02:00.015+08:00

The first time I saw Tasmania, I wanted to find a small cottage and just write. Still do, if I'm to be honest. The scenery is powerful. The air is crisp, clean. I can see why so many artists retire there.

On my most recent trip, mid-winter, I hired a car and just drove. My plan was to stay out of Hobart and Launceston. I followed the coastline where I could, and I was never disappointed. The roads in Tasmania are first-class.

This is hard, beautiful country, somewhere to get lost. The temperatures stay cold, but if you have your gloves and your beanie, a good coat and maybe a scarf, the cold doesn't seem to matter.

I spotted this rainbow on the horizon. It was heading to nightfall on my last day. Perfect!

I wish Dad could have come with me. We could have beachcombed together, dined together, built up a good evening fire together, and he'd no doubt have remembered all those Anglesey stories I love to hear. I hope there will be another chance.

Pirates Cove, and I so want to spend a summer there. I found a cottage for sale, and oh boy I was seriously tempted.

I spent four relaxing days in Tasmania, mostly not speaking to another soul. How relaxing was that! The best of it was spent on the shoreline simply breathing in the hour.

The last photo I took. This little spot just seemed too beautiful to ignore, so I drove the car around and snapped away. This farmer has the prettiest land in all the southern hemisphere. The light in Tasmania is different. It's a photographer's paradise.

Chapman Valley

2008-08-21T23:49:00.033+08:00

This is the beautiful Chapman Valley, located just outside of Geraldton in the Mid-West of Western Australia. It's where I have been working all this year.

Good winter rains mean the farmers are happy. The crippling drought has broken at last. This year looks set for a bumper harvest.

Every day I drive through this valley and it's never boring. The light is always changing.

I get the sense that this land is very old indeed. The hills are weathered. Winter is always the shortest season and the lush green is quickly replaced by orange and red.

This hill always impresses me.

Sandra and I have bought a small property. One hectare to steal us away from the hustle and bustle of suburbia. We are itching to start building.

There are no streetlights or powerlines to spoil the views. The sky is so big! We can't wait to buy a powerful telescope and set it up on the porch. I bet the stars will be glorious.

Book Lovers

2008-04-20T21:41:00.004+08:00

Just a very quick plug for a wonderful website I've stumbled upon. It's called Good Reads, and an outstanding discovery if you love books and reading.

Here's the link: http://www.goodreads.com/

Spread the word. It would be nice to see more Australian books and writers featured.

RIP John Evans

2008-03-01T23:17:00.002+08:00

John Evans was a good man, a sweet man. He died last week when his heart no longer felt the need to go on. I miss him already. He was perhaps the quietest man I have ever known. John Evans never big-noted himself. He was the quiet one, the man who carried in his chest all the pain of the past. He loved his family. He loved his dog. He looked forward to retiring to a life of walks on the beach here in Geraldton. A humble man, a mysterious man, and a man I never really knew. He kept secrets. He knew conflict. I always got the impression he wanted to speak the unspeakable and couldn't find the vocabulary. He never betrayed the past. No one speaks ill of him. Folk only have good things to say. I listened to John deliver the speech at a high school Anzac day service not too many years ago, and I was in awe. We all were. He held a thousand teenagers to every word, in the toughest schoolyard I have ever known. His words rang true. John, you big hearted, quiet soul of a man, God bless and goodbye. Geraldton has lost a true son.

Home Sweet Home

2008-01-27T20:40:00.000+08:00

Hi, everyone. It's been a while, I know. Here I am in one of my favourite places in the world. This was early morning. Minutes later, the sun rose and the whole harbour lit up beautifully, as you can see.

To all my readers, I wish you a very happy 2008.

Ocean Road

2007-08-14T17:45:00.000+08:00

Here was all darkness; there was all light. The house was lit up, every room appeared to be lit up, and there was even a string of coloured lights for the patio…

What I wanted to do was row out further, out onto the ocean road, but I had a promise to keep and I kept it. At no point did I lose sight of the house. Even so, my mother must have been worrying about me, and twice she walked outside to look for me, and twice I flashed Myron Abbott’s powerful torch at the shore.

‘I’m right here,’ I called out to her, and, ‘Look, I’m fine.’

I don’t think she even heard me. Just then a fish jumped close by, and then another…

‘Let’s dance,’ I imagined him saying, and I imagined my mother putting down her glass of wine and getting up from the sofa to meet him in the middle of the floor, because that is what they were doing. Dancing, and having an energetic time of it, and I thought I heard my mother laughing inside the house.

Here is my latest novel. Naturally I am feeling very much like the proud parent here. It's published by Fremantle Press, Australia's finest independent publisher, and will go on sale shortly. What a great job they have done! I am so lucky to have a publisher who cares enough to design such a beautiful book, and truly, this one is a knockout. Anyway, I couldn't wait for the official launch, so here's a sneak preview.

Cape Burney

2007-08-05T15:32:00.000+08:00

This is the lookout at Cape Burney. We locals are very protective of this precious part of the West Australian coastline. It's in our soul.

Most afternoons the big waves crash onto shore. It's not a safe beach for swimming. There are rips. But at night, from our cottage, I hear the booming song the surf makes and am oddly comforted.

The sand is white and very clean. How lucky we are, to live on such an isolated coastline.

It's a beach ready-made for beachcombing. Our garden bed is full of the little treasures we find as we stroll along the shoreline: coral, sponge, shells, driftwood and such. The winter storms have brought in the seaweed, so it's a colourful beach right now.

Watch out for the craggy rocks!

Jack and Cody, our two little dogs, love to get their paws wet. They are too gutless to actually go in for a swim, which is just as well.

The dunes are the perfect place to sit and think. I've written whole sections of my novels sitting here.

On the east side of the dunes lies the Greenough Rivermouth. It's a place teeming with birdlife. I've spent so many hours walking there, thinking, dreaming.

The prize spot for any fisherman is the rock that juts out over the deep stuff. It's a perfect way to end the day.

Hope you catch a feed, mate!

It takes me five minutes to walk home from the beach. My soul is refreshed again.

The Wisdom Of George Eastman

2007-07-28T12:00:00.000+08:00

Now here's a mystery. This photo has been sitting on my father's hard drive for some time now. I only just discovered it. Who is this person? (Who was this person?) And why should I care?

George Eastman, the founder of Kodak, coined the phrase, 'Kodak doesn't sell film, it sells memories.' Clearly he had done his research. Most people take pictures in a vain attempt to preserve family memories. But a photo on its own isn't enough. It's what we do with the photo that makes all the difference. In this case I need to find out from Dad all that he can tell me. I am intrigued. Here is a photo, and I have no idea how it came to be sitting on my father's hard drive. Someone from his past, surely. Someone he maybe knew.

If we are having trouble holding on to our past, we are in even more trouble holding on to the present. Since we all went digital, we have been deleting our images at an alarming rate. This is a new and very worrying trend. Consider: before the digital revolution, 98% of Kodakchrome eventually made it to print to be stored away. In comparison, only 13% of the images sitting inside the digital camera survive to print. The home-based hard drive is now the shoebox of choice, limited and vulnerable as it is. I can't bring myself to trust any hard drive, but the choice has been taken away from me. Soon I won't be able to buy Kodachrome. This worries me a lot. A wardrobe I can trust. Paper I can trust. But a box of circuitry that hums and occasionally beeps and mostly freezes up?

Ah, but we have Verbatim, guaranteed for ninety-nine years. (I hope so.)

For Christmas, our daughter wished for a mobile phone that allows her to take photographs. Already, the phone is full to capacity. Our daughter has left home now, and has no way of downloading the photographs. She will eventually delete them all, to make room for the next moment, and the next, and the next, all to be deleted, deleted, deleted.

We are living in an era that no longer invites us to save our happy memories with a Kodak, but instead steers us to share moments, share life. It's all very spontaneous, happening in real time, but I wonder at the estimated twenty-eight billion images that were taken around the world last year. How many will exist twelve months from now? Okay, so we are not erasing memories. We are merely deleting images. But to delete so many, to hold on to so few, one has to wonder at what all that will mean for those who come after us. No doubt they will feel cheated. Perhaps they will even feel cut adrift. They might search and search for that one image that stitches together meaning: the past connecting up to the present, paving a way into the future.

I hope to spend part of my next vacation working through Dad's photos, with him by my side, and see if we can't label and tag so many precious (soon to be lost) memories before it's too late.

If Only

2007-06-14T18:07:00.000+08:00

(For the boy who worries too much.)

If only the world wasn’t tearing by you real fast, all this data going beep-beep-beep, like you’re a machine, so many pathways to pursue. Who stole your poetry? You! Awkward, miserable, scuzzy, snickering you, who got sent to your room because you weren’t interesting enough.

If only you could feel the music that’s here in your soul, every conversation, every stored and private hurt. And joy, let’s not forget joy, the truth of every feeling fizzing, crackling, high. There’s no need for speed, goey, whizz, ice, uppers, go.

If only I could nail together a box to house the madness you feel: voices inside your lunchbox, the microwave, the mattress on your bed. You scratch at spiders you know are living under your skin. You dream in cartoons.

If only I could show you the phosphorescent plankton making the waves hum electric; the luminous disc crossing the southern sky; Iggy Pop’s hundred million ways to live life; the king hit you never saw coming.

If only I could mail you some small parcel of success. Yes, you are beautiful. No, you did not wreck it. Relax, silly. Go to the zoo. Sit in the park. Pay a busker $20 to blow his sax down the phone. You’ll be ninety driving your little red sports car.

If only I could give you permission to be who you’ll be. Be the attention-deficit hyper-activity-disorder poster child if that’s what you want. Slam your door. Crank up the music LOUD. You are the heartbreaking work of staggering genius.

If only.

Novel Writing Tip #1

2007-05-24T22:57:00.000+08:00

I sharpen all the pencils in the morning and it takes one more sharpening for a day’s work. That’s twenty-four sharp points. I can make a newly sharpened pencil last almost a page. – John Steinbeck

Birthday Boy

2007-05-22T22:01:00.000+08:00

Today I turned 48, which is a scary enough thought. And today I forgot to take my glasses to work, left right here on my desk at home. I felt acutely aware of how vulnerable that made me, going about my duties as the librarian in a large senior college. Then, to rub salt in, a teacher handed out a class set of Monster Man, a novel I wrote some years ago now. The 16-year-olds soon found the picture of a much younger and hungrier Glyn Parry, with predictable good-humoured ribbing. A nice class, and an excellent teacher, and no one meant me ill.

But it's true. I am no longer young, and gone is my hunger to conquer the world of YA literature. I'm the librarian now, an inviter of other writers to the school. Am I sad? No, not at all. To pack away, to leave behind, the seductive yet strangely empty life I had as a writer on the road (I saw the country, I filled the auditoriums) makes perfect sense to me today.

I am 48. It's the right time to be living by the sea.

Happy Mother's Day, Mum

2007-05-13T21:32:00.000+08:00

On the morning Dad is expected home, the other wives arrive early to fuss over Mum like she’s a film star. Julie is allowed to watch if she promises not to touch the lipsticks.

I stay away. I am reading. The words are big, but not so big that I’m stuttering over the hoot and howl of them. I like the pictures.

Mum and her friends drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes, with Julie in charge of passing around the plate of chocolate biscuits.

Mum is saying, I think I’ve smudged. Have I smudged?

Josie, you look a million pounds. Julie, tell your mum how beautiful she looks.

Dad’s radio is playing. Someone is singing about three steps to heaven.

I should buy a pair of blue jeans, says Queenie. America, here I come!

I hear Mum telling the others that Queenie falls in love with every singer who comes on the radio.

Josie! What a thing to say!

Mum laughs and calls out to me. Glyn, come in here and tell me what you think. I know you’ve been listening.

I close my book.

I go in to see what they have done to Mum. I’m not ready for how pretty they’ve made her look.

Well? says Queenie, waiting.

Yes, I say.

Mum says, That’s it? That’s all I get?

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. She is wearing purple eye shadow and ruby lipstick. Her hair is different, shinier. Queenie has fixed it with hair spray. She looks like someone else’s mum, not Mum.

Oh, but doesn’t she look beautiful, Glyn. Like a picture.

Again, I say, Yes.

Julie is sitting on the bench top, nibbling the last of a biscuit. I spy the empty packet. There are no more left on the plate.

Ideas

2007-05-13T01:48:00.000+08:00

An idea is a feat of association.

Robert Frost

Kids ask me where I get my ideas from. I tell them I journey into the Simpson Desert on the full moon night of the summer solstice, where on the stroke of midnight I am visited by the ghosts of writers past. They talk and I listen, and that’s where I get my ideas from.

A Gift Of Words From My Father

2007-05-10T21:18:00.000+08:00

Please note: Today's post was not written by me, but by my father, Glynne Parry. They are the most beautiful words, a celebration of childhood. Enjoy!

Memories Of A Happy Childhood

I was born and grew up in the little village of Llanfairpwll. Mine was a happy childhood, free of drugs, vandalism and graffiti. Everyone knew everyone in the village, which in those days, over 60 years ago, was predominantly Welsh. We were taught in Welsh at the Infants School. Until one sunny afternoon, the excited English voices of evacuees from the English cities of the North were heard. Each home in the village was allotted their share of these children. The war had come to Llanfairpwll. Very soon afterwards, all the trees in the Column Woods were cut down and hauled away, to be used in the war effort.The grand old house, Plas Llanfair, was commandeered for barracks for Army personnel. First came a Welsh regiment. These were followed by a Scottish Regiment, the Lovett Scouts. Their pipe band marching through the village streets was a sight to behold, and it was the very first time I heard bagpipes playing.

When the Scots departed, the Yanks moved in. I had never before seen African Americans, or Jeeps, or had doughnuts and chewing gum. But we soon got accustomed to seeing the Americans going about their daily business. Not too many people will know that at this time, the great Brown Bomber, Joe Louis, visited the troops at Plas Llanfair to give an exhibition. I think that the Yanks must have taken their leave just before D-Day.My memories of the war were not that unpleasant. We had rationing and gas masks, but the war was never a reality for me as a young boy. Until one night, a German bomber discarded its unused cargo of bombs over the village. The only real casualty was No 8 Maen Afon, which was totally demolished. The other houses were intact and a canary in its cage survived. The other bombs fell into fields surrounding the village. One fell behind the railway station.

The railway station, famous for the long name set up along the platform, played a big part in my growing up. As a young boy, it was from here that we used to catch the Sunday School Trip train to one of the nearby seaside towns, such as Rhyl or Colwyn Bay. It was a very eventful day in our young lives, and we went on this trip annually.I was later to work on the Station as a Junior Booking Clerk, a very happy time in my life. I was surrounded by older workmates who taught me and teased me endlessly. They were all characters in their own right, and I remember them fondly.Names that come to mind are William (Information) Williams, a Porter, who knew a little about everything. There was Will Goods and Will Davies who ran the Goods Yard from what is now the Cafe and Souvenir Shop. The Station House was occupied by the Station Master and his family. This gentleman was always immaculately dressed and always appeared to me as a miniature Welsh Guardsman.

All this changed for me early one morning in April 1953. This is the day that I turned round to wave to my mother and father before turning the corner at Miss Owen's shop. Case in hand, I was on my way to the Station to catch a train to Wrexham. It was the end of childhood, a happy one for me. I had been conscripted into the Royal Air Force to do my National Service. I left Llanfairpwll that day with a mixed feeling of sadness and anticipation. In the years to follow, I was to further enlist in the Royal Navy, get married and have a family. I was never to settle back in Wales and my village home. I have lived in Australia for over three decades. It has never felt like home. Home will always be that little Welsh village. It is where my best and sweetest memories stem from. It is where my parents were born, and where they lived out their lives. Home is the little slate-roofed house into which my parents moved on their wedding night, and from which my mother moved to another kind of home in the village. She had lived in her little house for over 70 years and had brought her five sons into the world there. She died very recently at 99 years of age. What a host of memories she would have had.

During my short and rare visits to Llanfairpwll, I am struck by the many changes that have taken place over the years. It has grown and many of the quaint little cottages have been extended and covered in pebble dash. They in turn have been surrounded by larger and more modern houses. The little green fields, where I romped as a boy, have been taken over by fancy named housing estates.

Welsh is still largely spoken, but English can be also heard in the streets and shops.I know very few people that I meet. For an ageing man, an exile, with only precious childhood memories of the place, the changes I see have not improved my village home, which was always perfect.But I consider myself extremely fortunate. I can go away and only retain the memories of Llanfairpwll that I had as a boy, where I lived among caring, kind people. I go away with memories of a happy childhood.

Glynne Parry

2007

October Rust

2007-05-09T00:43:00.000+08:00

As you know, my new novel comes out later in the year. At first it was to be called Ocean Road, until my publisher alerted me to the fact that title has already been taken. So now I'm thinking October Rust, which I like a lot. What do you think?

Anyway, regardless of the title, here's a sample of what's inside:

How my father came to be in Western Australia in the late 1950s is easily explained. He was an adventurer, a sojourner, slowly winding his way across the planet to find himself. He found work where work was to be found, at construction sites and orchards, grain terminals and shearing sheds. He always wanted to live on the Abroholos Islands during the crayfish season, fascinated by the craggy lifestyle and stories of ghosts, but he did not know anyone who could get him over there legitimately, and he hated the idea of being a tourist. He would say, “What is a tourist, anyway? What does that mean?”

Note: I've always wanted to visit the Abrohlos Islands.

So, what can I say? A new book, and no doubt all kinds of new demands on my time. It's very strange to me, the dizzy business of publishing. To be honest, I can never get used to it. For a year or more I agonise over words and paragraphs, and who even knows? Yet the book finds the reader, and the reader maybe wonders about me -- Who is he? -- and here I am the whole time, writing writing writing.

I write because I am.

Snakes

2007-05-09T00:13:00.000+08:00

Spotted this fellow in Miami at Christmas. Yes, it is a beautiful snake, and yes, I am terrified. Would I touch it? You couldn't pay me to touch any snake, no way. I realise my wife and children have all held snakes at some point or other, but not me. Where does this fear come from? I don't care. Just please keep snakes away from me.

One Word

2007-04-30T17:44:00.000+08:00

Rain.

A Week Of Sunsets

2007-04-27T23:15:00.000+08:00

Firstly, my apologies for not writing in over a month. No excuses, even of the creative variety. But I'm back now and I'll do my best to keep up to date. Selfishly, I find the writing of this blog very meditative. If you haven't discovered the joys of blogging yet, you must have a go.

Here in the midwest of Western Australia we still haven't had any rain. But it's on its way, judging by the build up of clouds. And it's because of the clouds that the sunsets all this week have been simply stunning. Walking for an hour each afternoon, following the bush track near our home, I often stop to watch the sun slip that last notch out beyond the rivermouth and dunes.

Leonard Cohen once wrote, "You have to go to the truth of feeling. When I inhabit that place, I discard all alibis." Well, that's how this week has been for me, the sun suddenly gone and in its place Joseph's technicoloured dreamcoat of a sky.

Sandra and I were privileged enough last week to welcome into our home one of Australia's happiest children's book authors, Norm Jorgensen, and his beautiful partner, Jan. They had just spent a week skindiving at Ningaloo Reef. Lucky them.

Have a nice day!

Heat Wave

2007-03-20T19:42:00.000+08:00

What to make of a long hot summer, that shows no sign of easing even as daylight saving comes to a close, that's my thought tonight. What we need now, and desperately soon, is rain, rain and more rain. Anyone know a rain dance?

Wheels

2007-03-04T23:11:00.000+08:00

Today, as the sun was setting over the Greenough River, a procession of vintage cars drove past. They reminded me of this beauty I saw in Florida over Christmas. For all the glitz and glamour that was Disneyworld, this car really grabbed my attention. Someone owned this car once, and I wonder who. A doctor? A lawyer? Someone with money, for sure.

I'm glad the photo came out.

What is it about the past that haunts us so, our dreams, our scrapbooks? Because here I am, wishing to be behind the wheel of a car whose production pre-dates me, taking to roads I can scarcely know.

Can You Guess?

2007-02-08T23:49:00.000+08:00

I'd always suspected Sandra of being a closet Star Wars fan. Well, here's the proof. No Ewok village will ever be the same again.

Meanwhile, here I am on the streets of...where exactly? I'll give you a clue. Millions of people from around the world visit here every year.

Location: Florida

New Book Later This Year

2007-02-06T23:58:00.000+08:00

They met on Cottesloe Beach, mid-morning, my mother sitting on her towel and my father emerging from the surf, and that is how they met. He noted the book she was reading, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, and he asked her how she was enjoying it.

“It’s strange.”

According to my father’s account, she frowned when he knelt down beside her.

He told her if she wanted strange she should try Allen Ginsberg, and that he had a signed copy of Howl and Other Poems back in Texas, sitting on the nightstand where he had left it, in his upstairs room that looked out over oil wells and motel signs.

My mother confessed she had never heard of the poet Allen Ginsberg.

“But you’ve heard of Texas?”

“Everyone’s heard of Texas.” My mother gave up on her novel. “So, you’re really a Texan. I suppose that makes you some kind of a cowboy.”

“I grew up on the ugly side of the highway.” He settled down to talk. “Girls dreamed they were beauty queens and boys dreamed of college football.”

“But not you?”

“No, not me. I loathe football. Pool, now there’s a game that’s a mite underrated.”

Not a cowboy in the Glenn Ford sense, but close enough to be exciting to a girl recently graduated from Claremont Teachers College. He had just turned 23, older than my mother by a year. He wore straight-cut Levis and white cotton T-shirts. His favourite dress shirts were made by Wrangler and he wore them when he could find them, or had them sent over from Sydney or Melbourne, and once down from Darwin. He wore a pair of cowhide boots that looked tailor-made for dance hall floors and yard sales. He supposedly had a pair of snakeskin shoes won in a game of pool on an Indian reservation, but my mother never saw them.

I saw them one time. I had just started high school and at the shopping centre where we all caught the bus there was a clothing bin. One of the older boys thought it would be a terrific thing for me to get in there and see if there was anything of value.

“Check out if there are any more magazines,” said another boy.

I guess I knew the kind he meant. Some weeks earlier a box full of Adam magazines had been unearthed, as well as a handful of Private Detective.

I did not want to be the one to climb down inside a musty charity bin, but these were older boys who you shared a bus with every morning and every afternoon, boys who bummed smokes on the oval at recess, who carried Stanley knives at the bottom of their school bag, the dangerous kind teachers sent down to the deputy principal’s office a lot, so I soon found myself dropping headfirst into bags of castoffs.

And there they were, my father’s snakeskin shoes. Boots, actually, and sorely out of place next to tied plastic bags and Time magazines, broken toys and faded curtains. They were a long way from any Indian reservation or up-north rodeo. Dress-up shoes, I thought sadly. Something for little kids to get excited over.

In any event, my father was without a doubt the most interesting man a girl could meet that morning on Cottesloe’s burning sands. “I was a pushover,” she once told me, “for the rhinestone cowboy with the southern drawl.”

A Teacher Who Cared

2007-01-28T21:44:00.000+08:00

I was twelve years old and after that I knew, I knew, that I was going to be a writer. I went to high school and my English teacher, Anna Whitehead, took me under her wings. She took a shine to me, because I really was the odd-one out, this strange little kid with the funny Geordie accent, so naturally I loved her, and naturally I wrote to impress her. Every single day. Volumes. I’d ambush her in the corridor. I’d wait for her outside the staff room. I’d offer to carry her briefcase to her car. At swimming carnivals and sports carnivals I made sure I was in her duty area. Every Thursday I’d walk around the the lunch lawn with her as she asked other kids, less-inspired kids, please not to litter.

Anna Whitehead, I salute you!

Sunday, Sunday

2007-01-27T18:41:00.000+08:00

Here we are on a perfect Sunday in San Francisco. The sun was shining and Sandra's cheeks had a rosy glow. (It was cold!)

Everyone has a soft spot for San Francisco. And little wonder, it's a most beautiful city, compact and clean. The skies remained friendly, the fog stayed away, so we decided to walk it! Good call. The cable cars rattled and hummed, and they added so much character to those famous streets. Of course, every street runs down to the bay, so off to Fisherman's Wharf we strolled. It didn't take Sandra too long before she met up with these two shady characters. I suspect Norm Jorgensen set us up for this little dalliance.

Lunchtime. We ate hot clam chowder in a bread roll. Delicious! And then we were off again, power-walking for a good hour to reach the one landmark everyone comes to see. Awesome scenery! (Now I can add one more favourite bridge to Menai and Sydney Harbour.)

Would Sandra and I visit San Francisco again? In a heartbeat. Only next time we'll stay a little longer and explore the wine country across the famous Golden Gate!

Beautiful San Francisco

2007-01-27T03:28:00.000+08:00

The tallest Christmas tree we have ever seen stood in Union Square. It was quite a display of civic pride.

Across the street was Macy's.

Inside Macy's window was this little fellow.

And who could resist a store window like this one? More pink presents, please. This store was made for one Sarah Parry!

Yes, here we are in the week leading up to Christmas, a long way from sunny Australia. Our holiday is well and truly underway, and we're having a ball.

Lost In Translation

2007-01-25T02:37:00.000+08:00

Here is the first of several holiday snaps of Sandra standing next to some weird dress-up character. Enjoy!

Location: Shibuya, Tokyo

City Of Contrasts

2007-01-21T17:06:00.000+08:00

Talk about contrasts. Here I am late afternoon trying not to get knocked down in one of the busiest districts in Tokyo.

The next day a ten minute walk brought me to this most delightful park. I half-expected to see deer running through the trees. Do I look cold? It was freezing!

Then it was back into the human crush!

Someone has informed me that this is the busiest pedestrian crossing in the world. I believe it.

Location: Shibuya, Tokyo

Home At Last!

2007-01-20T10:43:00.000+08:00

Hi, everyone! Sandra and I survived our big overseas vacation. In the coming days I'll post some of the cool adventures we had, and maybe (eeek!) upload the better holiday snaps. To get the ball rolling, here is the best city park sign I stumbled across.

Location: Shibuya, Tokyo

Vacation Time

2006-12-07T10:10:00.000+08:00

Sandra and I are celebrating 26 years of marriage with an overseas vacation. The great news is we might even see some snow in Tokyo! (We'll see lots of airport terminals, too.)

Our departure date is almost upon us, and we haven't even had a chance to write out our Christmas cards this year. Yikes! So please, to all our friends everywhere, accept our profound apologies. We are definitely thinking of you all.

Happy Christmas, everyone!

Glyn & Sandra

Bushfire!

2006-12-07T08:33:00.000+08:00

Last summer we almost lost everything. The fires that had raged for four days in the State Forest surrounding our hills community intensified. Hundreds of volunteer firefighters from all over the State did what they could.

Then, on the fifth morning, my wife woke me and said, ‘There’s smoke everywhere. Look at the trees.’

Soon I was out the front of our house, not wanting to believe Roleystone lay directly in the path of a fifteen kilometre front. It wasn’t seven a.m. yet, but already the day felt hot. Another scorcher was forecast. Smoke drifted through the trees. The sun was blood red.

Then the phone rang. It was Dad. ‘Turn on your radio,’ he said.

Roleystone was on high alert. This was a first.

I turned to Sandra and said, ‘This looks bad.’

Charred gum leaves were beginning to fall out of the sky, an ominous sign. It had begun to rain ash. I knew from my friends at the ABC in Canberra that this was how it had started for them. And that by the end of the day whole streets were engulfed. Now it was our turn. Our usually quiet suburb echoed with the sounds of helicopters and water bombers.

The first police car turned into our street approximately half an hour later. My neighbour and I received the grim news firsthand: Yes, it was serious. Yes, we might have to evacuate. Less than five kilometres away, the Brookton Highway was now closed to traffic. Emergency vehicles only. The Salvation Army was already brewing large pots of tea in readiness for the big day ahead.

‘What should we do?’ I asked the cop.

‘Be prepared to leave in a hurry,’ he said, then, ‘But I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

As soon as the police car drove away I went back inside. I told Sandra, ‘We need to pack the boot. Now. Whatever you think is important.’

Sandra was way ahead of me.

She filled the boot with photographs.

For Dad

2006-11-19T22:14:00.000+08:00

I know Dad reads my blog from time to time. This is a sunset just for him. Enjoy.

Let's Dance

2006-10-16T18:39:00.000+08:00

There is a school near Port Arthur. Anyway, one day I am invited to speak to their students. This is not so long after the terrible events that unfolded there.

So I fly down to Hobart and I hire a car and I start the long drive. It’s actually a very beautiful drive, if you know it. Very rolling English countryside.

I’ve already decided that my talk will be upbeat. Lots of laughs. Keep it fun, Glyn.

I pull into the school half an hour before I am due. The teacher who meets me there is sweet. She insists I come up to the staff room out of the chill air. ‘Let’s make you a cuppa,’ she says.

Then she apologises, but she has to help set up the gym for my talk. I understand.

So there I am, happily abandoned until it’s time for me to go on stage. I’ve sat in dozens of staff rooms over the years. I’m well used to the wait. Only something about this staff room is different. It’s the whiteboard. I walk over to the whiteboard and I realise the whole thing is really a wall-sized get well card.

Every teacher has written a message from the heart. Every teacher has posted what they are feeling. Every teacher wants the world to know they’re doing okay. In effect, every teacher is saying, We survived.

Just then the teacher returns to take me down to my audience, and it’s the one time I regret not having my notebook with me. Because the poignant messages the teachers have written…

She can’t help but notice, of course. I don’t know what to say. What can I possibly say?

She says, ‘No one wanted to wipe the board just yet.’

Next there are three hundred precious lives in front of me, teachers and students, all ready for a good time. So I grab the mike and go straight into a comedy routine.

And instantly there’s this roar of laughter, thank God. And for the next 40 minutes there’s no ‘me’ and there’s no ‘them’. There’s no ‘teacher’ and ‘student’. It’s just ‘we’—the whole blessed bunch of us thrown together. ‘We’ are celebrating.

And then it’s Ask the Author A Question time.

Where do you get your ideas from? How come you’re so short? Were you born in a country? What’s that funny laugh? Are any of your books in our library?

And all I can think is, This school is going alright. This school is doing just fine. We are dancing.

First Female Space Tourist

2006-10-01T01:07:00.000+08:00

Here is a very happy Anousheh Ansari, an Iranian-American telecommunications entrepreneur who has just become the planet's first female space tourist. I wonder how many frequent flyer points she earned.

Now, if you are tempted to take a trip yourself, Sir Richard Branson has just the ticket. Here's how your seat will look.

I've posted the link if you want to visit Virgin Galactic. At last, all the promises my schoolboy comics made are starting to come true.

One Of My Earliest Memories

2006-10-01T00:48:00.000+08:00

The first thing I like about the place is the daffodils. They grow in the field behind our caravan. They grow beside the river. If you look closely, See, a big fish, Dad.

At first Dad cannot see. He’s a blind man. He shields his eyes from the sun.

He says, What fish? Where?

I’m pointing, and then the big fish jumps and there is a splash.

Oh, now I see. You’ve got good eyes, Glyn.

Soon we are walking again, as far as the riverbank allows. We come to a fence and long grass where there could be snakes. There might even be a baby dragon. Dad lifts me high up and over.

They’re called salmon, he says, meaning the big fish wearing the silver shirt with buttons and bells. And this is the Tamar River.

Dad, you could jump in the river.

But would I even want to? With a little laugh he shakes his head.

Daffodils are everywhere, even on the other side and up the slope into the woods. I like the daffodils. I’m not so sure about the woods. They look dark. A boy could easily be lost.

Dad says, Did you know there were pirates?

Pirates! Now I’m forgetting all about a salmon. It’s the sea for me and a yo-ho-ho.

Oh, yes, Cornwall’s famous for pirates, says Dad. They looted lots of villages here. Spaniards, they were the worst.

This makes me think of two laughing skeletons standing over a treasure chest. Their home is a beach that is palm trees and monkeys. I tell Dad what’s in my head.

Laughing, you say?

Dad, they were happy pirates to the end. They fished and hunted and dreamed.

When we are back on the lane away from the river, Dad brings up the pirates, saying, Glyn, I don’t know that they were ever a particularly happy crew. Mostly they ran away to sea to escape the gallows.

I know about the gallows. That’s the hangman’s noose and a rope that swings. Swish! That’s another one gone off to the devil.

Dad says, Come on, we should be getting back. Your mother and sister have been baking. Let’s beat the crow.

50 Years Of Television

2006-09-16T22:45:00.000+08:00

Ah, television. What a love affair we Australians have had with the box over 50 years. Recently I visited the Westfield mall to pick up a novel. Foxtel had an overhead plasma monitor five metres away from Dymocks. Noisy trailbikes were coming straight at me out of the ceiling. Pink Floyd's big gig in the sky? Hardly. Just a lot of sound and vision scrambling for my attention. It saddened me, seeing the plasma screen, because for the first time I realised television is everywhere now. There's no escaping its massive reach. And can it possibly be 50 years already? I'm starting to feel old. Yet I absolutely refuse to watch myself grow old watching television at the mall!

Listening To Young People

2006-09-12T09:26:00.000+08:00

This is what Sam Shepard the American actor and playwright tells me about today's young people:

"If it's possible to strike the heart of those miraculous seven years between age 13 and 19 it might be the pure animal thrill and terror of facing the unknown. Suddenly, I can see myself moving into this vast light; being thrust out by nature itself, free falling with no net. I need to come up with something! 'Who am I?' As hackneyed and simplistic as this question might sound to us of the dot-com E-mail computer age, it may still remain the most important one we can ever ask."

I have spent all of my working life listening to young people. And I have to say, Sam Shepard is spot-on here. Take time out to listen to their stories, and you quickly find today's teenagers are beautiful and precious and complex human beings.

And they are in our care. 'If you’re gonna hold a bird,' says Iggy Pop, 'you have to hold it with a certain tension or it will fly away. But if you crush it, you’re gonna kill it. I gotta learn how to hold the bird.'

I chanced to meet Iggy Pop one time. He was a perfect gentleman. He inscribed a book for my local high school library. I got the impression he listens to young people, too. Oh, and he makes loud records!

9/11

2006-09-11T10:46:00.000+08:00

It all starts with my son coming out to the studio, where I am tidying up the day's writing. He tells me there's been some kind of an accident. It's on the TV, coming to us live, every station.

'What kind of accident? Where?'

'New York, Dad. A big plane has crashed into a skyscraper.'

I turn off my computer and decide to take a look. Normally I can't stand live coverage of anything, too many inane voices getting in the way, but I sense immediately that this is a big story. It's New York, after all.

We walk out of my studio and I hear the rustle of our resident possums in the branches overhead. We walk past the pool that needs a super dose of chlorine if it's to be ready in time for summer. We walk into the house which is always like a sauna after the jarrah logs have turned to hot coals. Sandra has a mug of Milo waiting for me. I sit down beside her on the blue lumpy sofa I long to dispatch to the Armadale tip. And here it is, the same TV coverage on all channels. I quickly assess the situation. One of the twin towers that make up the World Trade Centre is in flames. Yes, a terrible accident. And then I am watching—we are all watching—the second plane slamming into the remaining tower.

'Whoah! What the hell!'

I stand up. I have to be on my feet.

'What is this! Is it war? We're at war!'

Sandra asks me, please, not to get over-excited in front of the children. She wants me to calm down.

'Sandra, don't you see? This is Pearl Harbour happening here. This is…what is this?'

It's mid-evening, and though we're half a world away, we're right there on top of the action. Underneath the action, as it turns out. And nothing, nothing at all, is making any sense just now. I can tell already that it's going to be a long, long night.

Boys And Reading

2006-09-10T22:07:00.000+08:00

Parents and teachers sometimes ask, 'Glyn, can you recommend a good book for a fifteen-year-old boy?'

Where to start? There are so many good books to choose from, and I won't try and list them here today. Ask a librarian! What I will say is this: Give older boys anything, so long as it has substance. What was it Kafka said? 'A book must be the axe that smashes the frozen sea.'

One book that smashed my frozen sea was Herman Raucher's Summer of '42.

Once a month my father treated me to movies at the drive-in theatre in Riverton (now long gone). One appalling winter's night Summer of '42 was playing. I was fifteen, the same age as Hermie (the main character), and the movie captivated me. For the next few weeks I made it my mission to own a copy of the novel. It still holds pride of place here in my library.

I revisit the text from time-to-time, and I'm always surprised at how well the writing stands up. Hermie was a character I could care about. I felt that I knew him, or at least I would recognise him if he was walking down the street. Therein lies the skill of the writer.

One day I was invited to speak at a private school at Elsternwick in inner city Melbourne, and I asked students to name their favourite book.

'Summer of '42,' said a boy. 'It's in my father's study.'

That knocked me out.

'Why that novel?' I said.

'Aw, you know.' He blushed and I quickly moved on to the next student.

It's nice to think a book as old as Summer of '42 still has the power to make a boy blush!

To any parent or teacher reading this, don't upset yourself too much. A good book will always find the right reader, including fifteen-year-old boys.

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

2006-08-23T12:22:00.000+08:00

Kids love to ask me where I get my ideas for books. I tell them I journey into the Simpson Desert on the full moon night of the summer solstice, where on the stroke of midnight I am visited by the ghosts of writers past. They talk and I listen, and that's where I get my ideas.

If only it was that simple. I've never met any published author who said writing is easy. I'd be very suspicious of that person anyway. No, you just write. You have to get the words down. For months I write with 4B pencils, filling exercise books at ungodly hours. I bend every sentence to my will. Anything else is just faking.

Who can say where any writer gets their ideas? We're all so different. But that's what I love! How different every book is, when it's finally put to bed. And how unique every voice is, bold as a clean white page.

Introducing...Norman Jorgensen

2006-08-20T20:54:00.000+08:00

Here are two recent picture books that hold pride of place in my library. Both were written by Norman Jorgensen, a fellow West Australian and one of my closest friends. They were illustrated by the gifted Tasmanian artist, Brian Harrison-Lever. If you're looking for the perfect gift for someone special, don't go past these two beautiful books. They're simply stunning!

Why We Need Librarians

2006-08-15T19:50:00.000+08:00

The United States Government has misplaced the original recording of the first moon landing. Armstrong's famous space walk, seen by millions of viewers on July 20, 1969, is among transmissions that NASA has failed to turn up in a year of searching. The material was held by the National Archives but returned to NASA sometime in the late 1970s.

A Timely Reminder

2006-08-12T13:27:00.000+08:00

Here's the musical genius many of us love and respect, Pete Townshend, with a sobering reminder to take care:

'My ears are ringing, loudly. My own particular kind of damage was caused by using earphones in the recording studio, not playing loud on stage. Hearing loss is a terrible thing because it cannot be repaired.'

Thanks, Pete. I've turned the volume down.

Happy birthday, Julie

2006-08-10T21:22:00.000+08:00

Dad takes us to a booth. He pulls a heavy curtain aside and sits us down on a stool, saying, Don't move. Smile for the camera. We'll surprise Mum.

We don't see any camera, only a square of glass. Dad draws the curtain quick, saying, Smile!

Nothing happens except we are sitting on a stool looking at our reflection, then everything happens fast, so fast that it makes us jump and we forget to smile.

A Little Bit About Me

2006-08-09T21:24:00.001+08:00

I was born in a pub in the north-east of England. The movie Billy Elliott was shot in the streets where I played. My parents were determined to get away. When I was twelve we came to Western Australia to live.

I was a Lynwood migrant kid. I went to Kinlock Primary School, then Rossmoyne Senior High. I was always the shortest boy in the class, with everyone telling me I'd be a jockey. My English teacher, Anna Whitehead, asked me what I wanted to be. I told her I was going to be a writer. She still has some of my earliest work.

I'm married to the woman I love. Sandra and I have been together since high school. We met on the basketball court after Friday night Church youth group. I offered her a cup of cordial, and a mosquito was swimming in there. She laughed. Sandra has this one dimple on her cheek and it’s so cute when she laughs, and I just knew I was going to ask that girl to marry me.

She said yes.

We have three children, all grown up now. Our little nest is empty. All we ask is that they love all people the same and try to walk the earth gently.

And The Answer Was...

2006-08-09T20:51:00.000+08:00

S.E. Hinton

My good friend and fellow West Australian, Craig Silvey, correctly guessed the quiz photo. S.E. Hinton wrote that amazing first novel, The Outsiders.

Speaking of amazing, you must buy Craig's novel, Rhubarb, one of the 50 Great Reads chosen for Books Alive 2006. Awesome talent!

Thankyou For All The Comments

2006-08-08T21:42:00.000+08:00

It's so humbling to see people are actually reading my blog. It's my little portal in cyberspace, and I'm very happy with the way it is all going.

Tonight I've been thinking about how precious young people are. Not so long ago, we asked them this simple question: 'If you could discover, invent or solve anything during your lifetime, what would it be?'

Their responses were deliciously varied:

'A cure for cancer.'
'Toast that doesn’t fall butterside down.'
'A skateboard that doesn’t wear away.'
'Everlasting lollipops.'
'Couches that fly in the air with an engine so that you can be comfortable and not get stuck in traffic.'
'Vaccination against greed.'
'A terrorist detector.'

Now I have to say, I really like the idea of that couch. Mine would be blue. I would fly to wherever. Mindil Beach for the sunset. Kununurra for the bats.

Anyway, let's all make a big effort to value our young people. They're definitely worth it!

Quiz # 1

2006-08-07T23:19:00.000+08:00

Okay, let's see how good your knowledge of YA fiction really is. Who can be the first person to guess the identity of this writer for teenagers. I'll publish the first person who guesses correctly. Clue: she isn't Australian.

Invisible Girl

2006-08-07T17:39:00.000+08:00

One thing she has never come to terms with is the invisibility factor. She always wants to run, hide. Whenever people look in her direction a giant searchlight sweeps across her soul. (p18)

Observant readers have asked if I am the same Glyn Parry who writes YA fiction. Uhmmm, time to confess: yes, I am that Glyn Parry. I'm pleased that you've found me, albeit via my blog.

To my readers, forgive me if I have stayed invisible these last few years. Most days I feel a bit like the character in my book, avoiding the giant searchlight. I have deliberately stayed low. That's because I want to be the best writer that I can be, and not simply churn out product. Also, essentially I am a private person. Like a lot of writers I find I do a much better job if I'm given space to dream.

Maybe you're looking for good books for teenagers by Australian authors? Let me help you in your search. We have an excellent selection here in the land of the kangaroo. I'm certainly very happy to point you in the right direction if you're curious.

Happy reading, folks!

Green Paddocks At Last

2006-08-06T23:00:00.000+08:00

This has been the driest Geraldton winter in living memory. However, the rains have come at last, and our block in the Moresby Ranges looks very green again. Phew! The farmers may not have the bumper crop they were hoping for, but they may yet escape ruin. Let's hope so.

For Mum

2006-08-06T22:14:00.000+08:00

We cross the main road. A double decker bus waits, and all the people sitting up top from Easington and villages further along watch the chair-o-plane go faster and faster. They'll be wishing they'd moved to Horden where the work is and where the fair sets up every year. The bus pulls away, and it's goodbye to sky boats see-sawing up and down, and the waltzer rushing riders sideways.

Move to Horden, I want to yell.

The fair never goes to Easington, only buses and rent collectors. We're lucky to be living in Horden.

Dad is after a prize for Mum. There are so many chances to win! First he tries to win a transistor radio, but to do that he needs five quoits on, and he manages only one. Next he tries to win a big teddy bear, throwing five darts, then ten, then fifteen.

The teddy bear isn't going anywhere soon.

I could have saved you the trouble, says Mum, who is a better dart thrower than Dad after her years in the pub.

There are air rifles. Dad lets me have one go, winking at the man in charge as if to say, Give the lad a go.

Mum doesn't like me firing a gun.

It's not a gun, says Dad. It's an air rifle.

He should know. Taid has real guns sitting up high on the wall next to the kitchen in Wales. Taid is a poacher. He jumps a fence in the woods and brings home pheasant fresh from the Marquis of Anglesey.

Mum is upset. Dad's showing her up in front of a crowd.

She says, It is a gun. It's got bullets, hasn't it? Come on, Julie. Let's see what's over there before he puts his eye out.

Mum's wrong. Dad's right. It's an air rifle. Air rifles don't have bullets. They have slugs.

But now Dad wants a prize for Mum again. He's spied a better teddy bear. I'm not going home empty-handed, he says, stopping at the stall with ping pong balls and jam jars. But he can't win. The ping pong balls bounce everywhere but in the jar. Dink-dink-dink.

Mum gets angry, saying, Give up, Glynne. I don't need a silly teddy bear. If I want one I'll buy one soon as the shops are open on Monday.

Hearing this, Julie says, Win me a teddy bear.

This is not the time for me to see a boy carrying a goldfish in a plastic bag.

No goldfish, says Mum, before I even ask. I've wasted enough money on silly prizes already. She says, You can go on the chair-o-plane and like it.

It's for little kids, I say.

Mum has had enough. She's tired. Her feet hurt.

She says, Come on, Glynne. Let's away.

Dad turns to me, saying, I think we'll make the waltzer our last ride. What do you say?

The best for last.

On the grass is a circle of sawdust, put there by an attendant after someone was sick.

Your funeral, says Dad, finally taking me up the steps and onto the platform. We sit down on the bench seat, and a big iron bar falls across us, to keep us in. Once every car is full, the ride starts. We lurch forward.

When we get off Dad is hurting. My shoulder, he says.

Home, says Mum. Have we all had a good time?

Julie says she had a very good time.

I see all the goldfish in plastic bags, still waiting to be won. It's that, or they'll be cat food.

Dad wants to know, Did you have a good time, Glyn?

Yes. Thankyou.

Julie has a plastic daschund to take home. Mum offered a man sixpence and he said, Why not? You knock its head, up and down, up and down. It's supposed to live on the rear shelf in a car and make people smile. We don't have a car.

Get it out of your mouth, says Mum, because Julie has started already. She's nibbling. That dog's going to have no paws after a week.

I'm exhausted, says Dad happily, as Horden families drift back to their homes. The sun is a light show behind the colliery. Over by the caravans, lights have started to come on.

The Future

2006-07-31T17:25:00.000+08:00

I made the mistake today about worrying about what the future will look like. Then I remembered this picture that always brings a smile. We can't predict the future. All we can do is protect the present and try and make this world a good place for those who come after us. 30 years ago the experts braced us for global cooling. We were headed for a new ice age. Today the experts say, No, it's getting warmer! Sunshine or snow, who can really say? But I'm confident we will adapt as we have always done. The imagination is a wonderful tool for survival.

Dinner With Friends

2006-07-29T18:31:00.000+08:00

Sandra and I are off to dinner with friends. You know, isn't friendship the best! To break bread in the home of someone whose company you enjoy, why that's a blessing right there. So thankyou Boris and Maureen for your hospitality. We hope you like the Ella Fitzgerald CD!

Books Alive

2006-07-26T23:52:00.000+08:00

Tonight was a very special gathering of book lovers here in Geraldton, our city by the sea. The library launched Books Alive with a fabulously entertaining family debate: Did Enid Blyton set out to corrupt young minds? (Needless to say, she didn't!) The winning team's effort was decided by audience response, based on a 'Timmy the dog woof-o-meter!' Yes, the louder the woofs, the higher the score. Books Alive is a very good idea and I do recommend you track down the 2006 Books Alive Great Read Guide. It lists 50 books so good...everyone will want to read them. So what are you waiting for? Woof! Woof!

Thankyou, Meekatharra, Mount Magnet, Albany & Kojonup

2006-07-26T01:06:00.000+08:00

I've been a busy chap of late, flying here, there and everywhere. Do you know what's really special? The beautiful people I meet. So this is my big thankyou. Here's wishing you all positive karma and sunshine popsicles. You give me wings to fly.

For Dad

2006-07-26T00:22:00.000+08:00

I have tripped where my father ran, through slanting fields of cold sunshine and leafy woods hung over with dew. I have slipped where my father sailed, down tumbling slopes of wildberry to reach the ruddy banks of the Menai. I have stood in my father's climbing shadow, where on a fire-breathing night stone lions failed to guard sleeping tunnels atop the tubular bridge. I have dreamed what my father lived, shrieking banshees leaping London-to-Holyhead steam trains across raging straits. I have sat where my father explored, in a mantle of granite and magnificent oak, air thick with Snowdonia frost and salt lifted from the Irish Sea.

All this one hour when I was very young, away from the village with the longest name. I was taken to the shore by my grandparents, my nain and taid – to skim stones, float driftwood, watch whirlpools cling to the turning tide. Then, too soon, Nain's thoughts fell to supper and Taid's hunting dogs led me back to the crunch of leaf litter and ever upward to the main road. One of my father's uncles was knocked down there and killed.

Something I missed during that excursion into Menai woods. Below the bridge – now carrying road traffic as well as trains – a shackle is embedded in granite, put there by my taid before my father was born.

'Few know why the ring is there,' says my father. 'But I know. And the old people of the village know.' Taid was a great fisherman. The shackle was where he fastened his boat. He must have been a strong man, to steer and oar ahead of the rushing currents. Shared fishing expeditions are my father's happiest memories. And afterwards, all through the village, the cooking of fish on paraffin stoves.

Jack And Cody

2006-07-25T22:31:00.000+08:00

Cody is on the left and Jack is on the right. They are our loud little mates and we love them very much. Their favourite things to do are chase after rabbits, play hide and seek, roll in the riverbank grass, and bark! bark! bark!

For Sarah

2006-07-25T02:10:00.000+08:00

Good luck in your new job, sweetie! Jack and Cody say, Woof Woof.

Sleep Well, Stephen Knight

2006-07-24T23:11:00.000+08:00

Tonight we pause to remember our best man Stephen Knight, a police officer whose life was cut tragically short in 1993 on a lonely stretch of road in the Perth hills. Today would have been your birthday, Steve. We miss you so much.

Glyn & Sandra

G'day

2006-07-24T20:46:00.000+08:00

Welcome to my blog. Every day I walk to my favourite place to watch the sunset. Anyway, visit here often and have a nice stay!

Glyn