AND WE'RE OFF!

Yesterday, under cloudy skies, we set off from Station House. Excited doesn't even come close to our feelings as we drove away. There was the thrill of finally leaving. Apprehension for Pip. He'd lost his companion Ruby Chew only five days previously. Concern for housesitters Liz and Patrick handling Madame Cat's medication without being bitten or clawed. So much gratitude to our fabulous volunteers in the East End Gallery. Wondering what the hell we'd forgotten. And of course, a detour to our GPs in Northam to investigate Michael's very sore throat before we ventured Beyond the Black Stump.

Doctor Richard proclaimed Michael to be the lucky recipient of a nasty virus. He advised Michael that he was in for a rough five days or so. Richard's announcement immediately had implications. I was not keen on bush camping until Michael was better. With some very wet and cold weather on the horizon, we needed power for the first week to guarantee Michael didn't become chilled, leading to an upsurge in his asthma. The good news was that he had no chest infection implications.

We decided to shout ourselves Subway for lunch and some artiste supplies for Michael at Red Dot. Plus some symptomatic relief from the chemist. Michael's meds were contraindicated to mix with cold and flu tablets so I walked away with throat lozenges, nasal spray and a herbal concoction. Michael promptly declared the herbs were manufactured from powdered horse shit. I responded that meant they must be good for him.

We left Northam at two o'clock. We travelled through the afternoon, our destination Beacon. We stopped to see Rusty in Dowerin, Koorda's wonderful entry statement, their original Roads Board building and a plethora of seargent ants' nests. We chose to stick to minor roads which gave us a taste of the agricultural regions of the Northern Wheatbelt.

We eventually pulled into Beacon at almost six o'clock. Nobody was in the office and the park manager wasn't answering the phone. There was one other caravan in residence. We set up on the other side of the ablutions and plugged into power.

We still couldn't get the telly to work, so we gave up in disgust, enjoyed our prepared dinner, a couple of glasses of vino and retired to bed. We'd had a long day. Struggling to find comfort in Digger's bed, we eventually fell asleep.

Quite a start...

Michael with Rusty in Dowerin

Rusty's name tag

Rusty's story

Rusty's other side

In the middle of nowhere was the remains of Minnivale

The Minnivale Bakery's ovens

Lily and Digger at Minnivale (note their colour)

Minnivale Bakery crest

Koorda's fantastic entry statement

The impressive Koorda Road Works building plaque

And the less than impressive building!

The Beverley Hillbillies are GO!

Back in the time of the dinosaurs, one of my favourite programmes was "Thunderbirds". Created by Brits Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, the series revolved around the Tracy family, who were devoted to international rescues. Added to the mix were local genius "Brains", London intelligence operative "Lady Penelope" and driver "Parker". All the action was orchestrated by marionettes.

I have reached a stage in life when I often move at the speed of a marionette. Hence, the "Thunderbirds" hold a special significance. As I age, I achieve more slowly and deliberately. Which doesn't mean I enjoy life any less. I still love every aspect of my existence. I just don't complete goals as quickly as I used to. And that is okay.

We are leaving in the morning for our Northern Jaunt.  I have been packing, and packing, and packing for a number of weeks. Digger the caravan is bulging at the seams. Lily has been swept. Mostly, all is in situ. We are hoping to leave around midday. All is well in our world.

We have hit the jackpot again with our house sitters. Patrick and Liz seem like a wonderful couple who will look after Station House, Pip, Madame Cat, the Pirate Parrot and the gardens to the best of their abilities. I have no doubt that we will return to a scrupulously clean home, satisfied pets and living gardens.

All is well with our world. Roll on blast-off!

The Many Loves of Ruby Sofoulis

Ruby the Beagle has finally landed. This morning, we chose to euthanise her. This decision was not taken lightly. A month-long course of antibiotics to treat a possible urinary tract infection. Followed by further tests for idiopathic cystitis - inflammation of her bladder without bacteria. Then alarm bells following the discovery of rampant "transitionary" cells. The probable diagnosis was cancer of her bladder wall. Treatable but very serious. However, her behaviour was also suggestive of a rapid descent into doggie dementia. Piddling, barking, blank expressions, confusion, climbing up our legs. She was becoming very difficult to handle.

A further spanner in the works is our impending departure for the Northern Jaunt. If we hadn't added dementia to her list of troubles, we might have seen our way through. However, we were fast losing the quirky, naughty, mischievous, inventive and (occasionally) lovable Beagle day by day.

So, I set out for the Northam vet centre. The car travel distressed Ruby more than normal, in spite of her carsick prevention medication. She was hot and listless. She perked up somewhat on arrival but remained very subdued in the waiting room. Two other loud and boofy bull terriers sent her cowering behind my legs. And then, our turn came.

I was asked the other day why we trek nearly seventy kilometres to visit our GPs. Because we receive thorough, comprehensive and compassionate care. The same could be said of the vets in the same location. And today, Ingrid should have received a commendation for outstanding services to Ruby and to me.

She answered all my questions. We explored all the scenarios. She held me as I cried. She had some trouble with the cannula and Ruby's "old lady" veins, which kept blowing. However, once that mission was accomplished out of my view, Ingrid returned with sixteen kilograms of woebegone Beagle in her arms and set her comfortably on a blue rug on the table. We kissed and cuddled and whispered our love to Ruby as she left us for the big dog oval in the sky.

The rest of the day has passed. There has been lots of time for reminiscing. Ruby has certainly left an indelible stamp on all our lives.

She always trotted to the beat of her own drum. Her favourite position was lying down. So, she spent vast swathes of each day doing just that. Exercise was often taken reluctantly. She was not a social creature and would watch other dogs playing without joining in. However, if released off the leash, she took great delight in vanishing from our view into another dimension. We spent countless hours calling her, driving around looking for her and whistling for her, usually to no avail. Wherever she went, she would pursue her greatest joy - devouring any items she considered food. Wood, hard plastic, horrible old bones, rancid leftovers in bins, snacks left unguarded, handbags open on the floor and particularly pooh.

She certainly had the last laugh. As I cleared out her bedding one last time, there were the remnants of doggy do-dos scattered throughout. I fell into helpless giggles. I remembered losing her at our local park when she first came to live with me. I discovered her behind a tree, demolishing a discarded muffin from the recent sports day. The stalking of the lamb roast on the kitchen bench, resulting in footprints in my lemon tart, a trail of gravy down the drawers and being evaded by a determined Beagle as she rapidly consumed her spoils in the backyard. Endless pens, wall plugs, drawer knobs, door stops and Dad's hearing aid all destroyed. A power cord bitten through, a resulting blue flash, a slightly shaken little dog and goodbye to the fishtank's lights. If she set her mind to chaos, nothing was safe Under Her Eye.

She used all her senses to the same exacting degree as Uncle Martin's antennae. She had cunning in bucketloads and the perseverance of a battering ram. Whilst wearing a zapping collar, she worked out that she could wind down the battery if she sat just close enough to the electric fence. Then she was free to excavate her way out of the House that Rocks on her next adventure. Another triumph by the Problem Child.

Tonight, as I write, there is no background snoring or snorting. The tumbleweeds of hair are vastly reduced. There is no competition for the doggy couch. Pip was able to eat his dinner in peace, without being circled by a canine barracuda. We have been able to dismantle our Stalag 13 arrangement and actually sit on the couch. We left the front door completely open this afternoon without any mysterious disappearances. Suddenly, we are no longer at the mercy of the bloody Beagle.

Which doesn't mean that we won't miss Ruby and ache for her absence from our world. At multiple intervals during the day, I thought of her with a painful twinge in my heart. And she was Michael's last link with Joan, his previous wife who had died suddenly in 2008. Joan and Holly had brought Ruby into their home and then Joan had left Ruby with Michael. Caring for the unbelievably destructive little dog saved Michael's life and committed us both to over a decade of carnage.

Sweet dreams, Ruby Huby.

the original Three Stooges - Marangaroo 2009

Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth

Pre-rinse cycle

In the doggie bunks...

You can't see me!

Masquerading as Stout Cortez...

Wrapped around a chair leg under our desk...

The destruction of the hated barricade...

 Stalag 13 in our living room

Room service...

In the residence - 2017

I do loves you, Dad!

But I love food more!

A young Ruby, with her beautiful kohl-rimmed eyes.

Unexpected And Amusing Antics By A Most Practical Artist...

Every one of the East End Gallery artists has a story. That's one of the reasons I love being Front-of-House. I get to hear and appreciate all their tales...of woe, of joy, of triumph, of disappointment. They have become our extended family. And like every family, they all have very individual characters.

Bev Vivian, who is a felt and silk artist, would have to be one of the most unflappable and level-headed people I have ever met. She and husband Mel live in a large and rambling Federation building on Vincent Street that used to be a bank. Hence it is the BankHouse and has featured in more than a few photos and paintings.

Bev and Mel never have to attend aerobics or Pilates to keep fit. Inside this beautiful building is a precipitously high and steep staircase. Just popping up and down a few times every day would certainly guarantee their continuing good cardiac health.

When I first met Bev, she had recently had a knee replacement. She asked if she could supply the East End Gallery with some of her exquisite scarves and hats, as she was over attending markets on the weekends and being on her feet for hours on end.

"Poor frail old things" was my immediate thought, so of course I agreed to stock her Beverley V designs. A couple of days later, she and Mel manhandled a large and awkward unit into the Gallery. "Found this at a garage sale!" was Bev's happy exclamation. She and Mel manoeuvred the unwieldy cabinet into its designated spot, set up the glass shelves and Bev reappeared with a colourful kaleidoscope of hats and scarves. Which she promptly arranged on the unit, before handing me the neatly written inventory of items she had prepared.

Never judge a book by its cover. There was absolutely nothing frail or doddery about this pair. In the years since I often see Mel striding up the street at a very quick pace. Bev drops in periodically to present me with an updated list and replenish the stock. There is no doubt that Beverley V creations have a following and are admired and are bought on a very regular basis.

Bev and Mel have attended our Sundowners, joined us for a Christmas drink and dropped in and out of our lives as a most agreeable couple. I had never known Bev to become flustered, until this week.

Her stock had become quite low and I was contemplating talking to her when she wandered into the Gallery. Jan was also in attendance and we happily sorted through Bev's large bag of felted goodies whilst she undertook a quick count. As we wanted every single item, Bev agreed that she would take them all home to add the tags and come back the following day. No problem.

I was aware that Bev didn't return on the allotted day, which was unusual. She eventually arrived empty-handed with a worried expression on her face. Had she left the bag of hats and scarves in the Gallery...? Uh no, Bev.

She explained the calamity. They had done a very quick tidy of their home as visitors came to the door. The bag had been camouflaged in a Very Safe Place. Which had been forgotten in the haste of sudden entertaining.

Further subdued, she went home in order to undertake a search that would rival a major police operation. She was back in a surprisingly short interval. With the bag excitedly restored to this dimension.

The hunt for the bag had been comprehensive. They had searched nooks and crannies and probably been up and down that suicidal staircase a number of times. Bev had refused to give in. Finally, the bag's hidey hole had been revealed.

"Where was the bag, Bev?"

"Behind the ironing pile!".

Problem solved and catastrophe avoided. Bev's features returned to their usual calm and cheerful countenance.  I just want to know what persuaded her to look behind the ironing pile...

Bev and Mel - seasoned groovers at our March Sundowner

Their home - the Bank-House

Artist Jos conducting a plein air experience outside the East End Gallery, the Bank-House being the subject

With the finished piece...

How big was that ironing pile?!

Liberated at last and now on show at the East End Gallery!

Humans Of The Wheatbelt

I live in Beverley which is about thirty kilometres south of York. We have been here for over 8 years and I believe it was a great move for Kate and me. Before that, we were living in Marangaroo which is north of Morley in Perth. I grew up in Glen Forrest in the hills and just loved the hills. I don’t enjoy living on the flatlands – I like living with bumps. I enjoy the style of life we have and the pace of how things move along. It’s relaxing. I like knowing the people who live around me. People are friendlier in Beverley and generally easier to relate to, especially other artists. We really look forward to the Beverley Art Prize every year, as there are literally hundreds of artists who enter.

As an artist, I find metal objects and make sculptures too. I enjoy going into the outback goldfields in WA in the middle of nowhere and finding metal that I can use. There are many different angles in mine shafts, for example vertical, horizontal and forty-five degrees. I don’t go down because I don’t have the rescue equipment. I look around the site and look where people used to live and where they would have put their rubbish. Those living in the early mining centres were amazing recyclers.  

It’s all about finding metal objects that have the shape, texture and balance that call to me. Texture - provided by the years plus how nature and weather’s influence. Balance – less is more in my sculptures, like the desert. And then my pieces are used to tell a story.

At the moment I want to do a three-dimensional mandala piece representing our last two trips away. We came back with buckets of material and I just want to use them all to describe the three different sites we went to.

It’s hard as an artist that after you have put your body and soul into creating something, you may sell it. Sometimes I’m happy to sell but I also do like to keep things. Eventually, I would like to have enough pieces to have a solo exhibition. The sculptures that I’m making now are selling but the older things I have are liked but they are just too expensive.

Doing the sculptures over the years has really helped my mental health. The very first sculpture I ever made at the age of twenty-five is in the gallery and I will never sell it. It reminds me of where I have been and where I am now. Always remember where you started.

Sometimes it’s hard to get going – ideally, I have three sculptures going on at the same time. It gives me an opportunity to really think about where I want them to go and what they mean to me.

I was a mechanical fitter apprentice at the Midland Railway Workshops, as was my Dad before me. Metal is in my blood. I have learnt so much. The railway workshops were like working in a museum in so many ways. When the Workshops closed, there was an opportunity for former workers to add their names to a memory brick wall. Dad and I both have our names there.  

We have set up a Gallery in Beverley. In fact, it was originally a real estate agent’s office where we signed the paperwork for our first house. We bought the building eighteen months later which I then renovated it over the next four and a half years, with my trusted friend, Gary. After we opened the Gallery, we found we were spending so much time there that we decided to build a house behind the building. We love living here in the centre of town. It’s just perfect. It’s small and just right.

We found out after we moved here that my grandfather and grandmother had actually been married in Beverley in 1925. On 4 September; this is also my birthday in 1955. We discovered my mother was born in Pingelly and two of her siblings – an older brother and younger sister - were born in Beverley. I think we must have been destined to be here.

I have been married twice before and have four children. But unfortunately for many reasons, it never worked out and I don’t have any involvement with my children now. This has had a huge impact on my mental health over the years. I’m a grandfather now. It’s very difficult. Too many years have passed.

My wife has three kids – in fact, her daughter decided to take my last name, which was so amazing. She said that not many people get to choose their father but she chose me. It’s lovely. There have been lots of great moments in my life and living here in Beverley suits my sense of well being. There have been a few moments in my life that have not been good. I have been reckless with my life and luckily survived.

I entered the Avon Descent once with a canoe. I made it to the last checkpoint and pulled out at Guildford because of my very painful wrists. It was a long hard slog but I’m so glad I did it. It was a great adrenalin rush.

I was a volunteer at Avondale Machinery Museum for a year or so, where they house ancient tractors. It was great. I would start and drive a little D2 caterpillar tractor. I once did a three sixty and tore up the mud a bit. I just love old machines. Playing in scrap yards, doing my apprenticeship in the railways, working and travelling in the Goldfields over thirty years have all fed my passion. Now that we live next to the train line, I can hear the different types of locos every day.

My father was a marine engineer on the tugs up in Port Hedland. I was the only mechanical fitter at the Port Hedland hospital. My accommodation was the Green House right at the entry to the harbour so I could then wave to my dad on the tug boats. I have really loved the Pilbara from that time. The colour of the soil is something you never forget and it gets into everything. 

My advice would be - life is an adventure. Enjoy your life and see things for yourself. Things do happen that cause ups and downs and this has impacted my mental health over many years. Find a trusted doctor or a soul mate or a group and don’t give up. Sometimes I have needed a helping hand to keep the Black Dog at bay. And try and keep your sense of humour as life can be just too serious!  

Human – Michael Sofoulis 

Photographer & Interviewer – Anna Cornish

Boys Will Be Boys...

I have been reminded over the last week or so that some boys never really grow up. They may inhabit a man-sized body, but that is a cunning disguise. Inside are mischievous lads just waiting to push the limits, bend the rules or test their boundaries. And in spite of these escapades often ending in strife, they can't help themselves.

Take my beloved Michael for instance. Our latest Sundowner was a perfect example. On occasions such as these, he chooses to conveniently forget that he is a middle-aged bloke. Imbibing in rather too much vino, pinching more than a few fags and staying up until well past his bedtime does not augur well. And I would like to pass the buck of Michael's idiocy to Mister Lawrence Jones, as he cheerfully walked the same path as Michael.  The problem being - they are both boys and were not under the supervision of any responsible adult.

Michael was not a happy camper the following morning. After his previous shenanigans at our Easter Sundowner, he had vowed not to repeat the same mistake. He didn't just replicate this same mistake. He surpassed his error of judgement spectacularly. Without a skerrick of sympathy, I frogmarched him out of bed at the extraordinarily early hour of ten o'clock. He lay low for much of the day, his constant companion an empty bucket...

I eventually took pity on him and doled out the anti-nausea treatment and headache relief. He remained subdued for a full two days. Will this episode result in the Getting Of Wisdom? Possibly. Until the next time.

I think Michael has always enjoyed, living ever so slightly, or occasionally teetering, on the edge. Vanessa remains gobsmacked at Michael's continuing insistence at pressing my buttons just enough, before heading for the hills. Every now and then, he miscalculates how quickly I can lose patience with him. This may lead to a saucepan being whacked on his shoulder, a placemat frisbeed at his head or a significant box of his ears. As he charges past our daughter in search of sanctuary, he always has a wicked grin across his face.

His nostalgia towards the riding of motorbikes is akin to women forgetting the God-awful pain of childbirth. He remembers with such fondness weekend rides into the Avon Valley, trips to the South West and longer escapes to the Batavia Coast or beyond. What he forgets is coming off his motorbikes at regular intervals and having to live with dimples on his bum caused by gravel rash or the ongoing ache of a cockatoo slamming into his knee at over a hundred kilometres an hour. Or insects flying into his corkscrewing pigtail and never coming out. Or sheer exhaustion forcing him to sleep in less than salubrious locations. Receiving move-on notices from the police. Losing his license for speeding. Failing to regain his license because the tester wanted him to ride in a particular way that Michael claimed was "riding to die".

Another act of sheer stupidity involved holding a stunt kite handle between his teeth. This only caused the unhappy flight of one of his front tooth. At other times, he believed he was could fly. Unfortunately, he fell downwards with all the aerodynamics of a brick. He ended up with a broken wrist riding off the end of a railway platform and splitting his skull open after diving headfirst onto a railway sleeper from three metres.

 A very long time later, he tried to impress me with a handbrake turn on our first Goldfields trip. This only resulted in a tyre being staked. Taking a squizz up lonely tracks has almost led us becoming lost. Clearing a few rotted banksias through fire was nearly a disaster. And he has always had a habit of taking me to where dead things smell.

His lifelong friends are mostly as bad as him. They have created a Lost World for themselves that is reactivated the minute they join forces again. And they usually engage in activities they regret later.

Having said that, there is never a dull moment living with my husband. He is funny, brave, tolerant and forgiving. He has the patience of a saint. He is sometimes a steadying influence on my crazy schemes. We can laugh at ourselves and at each other without either of us taking offence.

And we are never bored. We are always up for a challenge. Maybe having a version of Peter Pan as my darling partner isn't so bad after all.

Wide-eyed Michael

Smouldering Michael

Cool Michael  (in the sweater)

Hot Michael

Hairy Michael

Skinny Michael

Passionate Michael

Reflective Michael

Proud Michael

Adventuring Michael.