A Most Successful "Open House" Launch

COVID 19 has been responsible for some innovative thinking and new practices that have impacted all our lives. Now that restrictions have been relaxed, I am in two minds about the resumption of the East End Gallery's linchpin event - our World Famous Sundowners.

We were due to host a Sundowner last Saturday, during the quaintly-named WA Day long weekend. However, seven days ago, we were still limited to twenty persons inside the Gallery at any one time. Plus, all the headaches that social distancing would cause as our Sundowners are definitely Not Famous for guests staying one and a half metres apart.

What to do? We had only resumed Gallery operations the previous week, money was tight and the BBQ was somewhere in the depths of Michael's workshop. As an aside, sorting and cleaning his workshop had been Michael's Lockdown Project. However, we had both rather enjoyed the benefits of isolation a little too well, as although Michael had made Progress, his workshop was still in a state of total chaos.

As an alternative, the concept of an "Open House" became quite appealing. This would be held during the day, be very low-key and we asked all attending to bring a plate and a bottle. With no surety of live music, we rolled out a BYO favourite CD to play during the afternoon.

In the end, the indomitable Mister Lawrence Jones rocked up with his guitar and he and Nina Simone inspired Mizz Jan George sang together, adding that extra level to the occasion.

We were delighted to welcome back Steve and Di (with Brinn the Border Collie) from Pingelly who dragged two other delightful couples along. These city slickers had thought they were going to enjoy a sedate country long weekend together. They were seriously mistaken and were already a tad stunned when they arrived for our Gallery Open House. Fortunately, Steve was there in his capacity as Skipper and we assume all travelled back to Pingelly without mishap.

So, instead of Michael becoming completely wrecked in the company of Mister Jones, we all partook in an entertaining daylit afternoon and tossed the last guests out as evening was falling. Michael heated up the leftovers for an impromptu dinner with Lawrence and me, I just lasted until "Operation Buffalo" concluded at nine-thirty and retired to bed. True to form, the Boys did remain up for sometime but on Monday morning Michael was only slightly Under The Weather instead of his usual total Failure To Launch.

All in all, our Open House/Gallery was a roaring success, so much so that I am planning our next one to coincide with Michael's sixty-fifth birthday celebrations. This promises to be much more low key than his sixtieth, which ran over an entire weekend and ensured that he was out of action for several days.

The actual date is still hazy within the confines of my brain as we are still hoping to have a Reader's Digest version of a northern safari this year. With intrastate borders lifted, Michael is itching for a return to Marble Bar as well as a detour to his beloved Goldfields.

We shall keep you all posted. In the meantime, I am tossing titles around for our Gallery daylight activities. Open House/ Gallery is OK but I'd really like a catchier phrase. What about Daylight Dalliance at the East End Gallery? Or does that suggest a trip to a brothel instead of a gallery...?

And as for our Sundowners, we will be hosting two of these before year's end - the September Queen's Birthday (!) long weekend and our birthday around mid-December. Just don't expect my darling husband to be compos mentis too soon after either of these nightly extravaganzas.

Imogen with Grampy in the East End Gallery...

Immy's fabulous Mummy and Daddy...

With Mummy...

Open House - 31 May 2020

Hot Mix Heaven

Who would have ever thought that roadwork could be a community event? Or a spectator sport. Or a debating stage. An opportunity for gesticulation, rivalling that of a Greek wedding. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have had all this and more this morning in Heavenly Beverley. From the comfort and warmth of Station House, we enjoyed a bird's eye view of the greatest event since a mummified big toe was discovered outside the post office.

Way back in July 2012, when we purchased lot 123 Vincent Street and lot 420 No Street Address, we inherited the almost derelict Forbes building and a small adjacent block that had been subdivided when Adam was a boy. Using that area as storage for bricks, an old garden shed, firewood, huge metal beams and other sundry items, all of which did come in handy, we didn't contemplate a different purpose for the space until we realised that running the East End Gallery and living at the House that Rocks were not compatible.

Why? Because our half-acre of the garden at our initial Beverley abode was being neglected. Gardening in the Wheatbelt was brutal stuff. Solid clay was our default soil, summer was hot as Hades with moisture sucking winds, winter was the absolute opposite with stillness, cold temperatures and mornings of bitter frost, capable of rendering plants stone dead that had appeared to be perfectly healthy the day before.

I had lost the ability to be in the garden at a moment's notice due to our increasing commitments at the Gallery. Reluctantly, we made the decision to sell the House that Rocks and build a home on lot 420 No Street Address.

I have written about the saga of our build, an unexpected new subdivision due to moving the mutual property line, battles with utilities, overruns to budget and the ongoing grind to finalise the new subdivision (which remains ongoing to this day!). My job on Tuesday will be inserting a large garden gnome up a credit union's bottom to hopefully resolve this long-running issue.

Anyway, I digressed. Apart from finalising this pesky subdivision, our only quibble has been the continued dirt from the unsealed lane that borders Station House to the north. In summer we have endured the floating dust settling on every surface; in winter, we have tracked sticky Wheatbelt mud across the floors. Verbal requests were futile, as was a letter from our GP concerning compromising Michael's health due to dust. Finally, a letter from Michael's respiratory specialist pointing out the council's duty of care to anybody using the lane had the desired effect. Plus, we had a change of Shire President who was determined to shake up a bit of complacency.

We were promised that funds would be made available for this financial year, which ends in twenty-five days. In scenes of frenetic activity this morning, the closed lane finally had its coating of hot mix and gravel. I duly recorded proceedings and noted, with amusement, the gathering of five blokes - three council employees and two residents gasbagging about life, the universe and everything for a sustained period around eight o'clock this morning. Life in Heavenly Beverley has never disappointed.

So, as I write, the lane is still closed, protecting Anzac Lane with its beautiful coating. At some stage, we will apparently be receiving guttering and crossovers to finish the package. We look forward to this wondrous conclusion whilst appreciating, at last, the cessation of both the wet and the dry permeating Station House. And just like Pinocchio becoming a real boy, Anzac Lane is now a real road!

Stay tuned...

Another triumph in our year of wonders -

Back In The Saddle

I think we all secretly yearn for that special activity or career or gift that, when discovered, can help us feel really chuffed, proud, satisfied, fulfilled. For some, dancing or sport or art is the key to that happy place.

Me, I have about as much grace as an elephant with a dodgy hip, my attempts at archery almost ended in disaster, (for everyone else) and my woeful tries at anything arty meant that a lump of clay would end up looking like a lump of clay, my drawing of a bird would look like an angry dinosaur with an exploding head and my complete failure to cut straight or be spacially aware meant that I was useless as any sort of practical assistant.

I must admit that I did approach horse riding with a mixture of sheer terror and exhilaration. I took riding lessons with a country bloke when I was in my final year of school. I never really learnt the hang of communicating with a horse, and rather like photocopiers, horses could always sense my fear, and follow up with behaving badly

And as far as sexual awakening was concerned, I was still in a comatose state of blissful ignorance. Hence when this riding instructor introduced me to his erect willy, I hadn't the faintest idea that this could be construed as sexual assault. Earlier attacks had included a removalist who stuck his hand up my knickers whilst conducting a quote at our home (!) and some poor bastard who groped me on the train whilst I was on my way to school. When asked where I had been touched, I responded quite earnestly "Between Pymble and Turramurra"!

So, horse riding, along with most other enterprises, went out the window toot sweet. Later, I discovered running as meditative freedom away from my everyday pressures. Unfortunately, my ankles never forgave me and my exercise machine was given the kybosh after Ruby the Beagles ate the internal wiring. Twice.

As a result, I spent a long time between drinks exploring my options in various occupations. Junior nurse, house cleaner, charity saleswoman, receptionist and uni student were all stopgaps prior to my ultimate goal of motherhood. And although I adore my children and am so proud of who they have become, my only genuine gift, that of breastfeeding had to cease well before I actually felt any semblance of being a "good" mother.

Post-separation was still all about caring -kids, aged carer and then special needs education assistant. Even after we became the Beverley Hillbillies, I was still spending some of my days attending to (mostly) teenagers with all their usual adolescent behaviours as well as having some sort of disability.

The Education Department and I did not part on good terms. Being injured twice definitely wasn't what I had in mind when I became an education assistant. I think I was caught up in a saintly vision of a teaching Florence Nightingale when the reality was far more difficult and often tedious.

But, I had begun writing again back in 2009 and this experiment in expression gave me a great deal of satisfaction. I'd only given up keeping a journal as my earlier readings were almost universally dirgeful bilge. Having met Michael and enjoying new experiences gave me a renewed spring in my literary step.

Plus, throughout all the renovation of the Forbes Building and our vague notion of establishing some sort of Gallery, I revisited my previous fascination and love of art and art history. I felt I was a bit like Prince Philip in that sense; I knew what I liked but not necessarily its genre or period.

When we opened the East End Gallery, I rather fell, inelegantly and gradually, into my role as Front-of-House. Then I realised that like everything else in my life, the stories were "the thing". The art pieces, the artists, our building, our town were all bustling with these stories. And that was when I think I found my feet.

We were all systems go when the Coronavirus lockdown began. I was looking forward to our Sundowners, the buzz of Easter and the change of season. Leaving the Gallery in the hands of our splendid volunteers whilst we took our annual northern jaunt. Suddenly, every plan went out of the window.

After my initial terror of the Plague, I settled into the most agreeable persona of a poor country squiress. Along with my said Squire, we relished the quiet days. We pottered away on personal projects - in fact, Michael was far more energetic than me, but the relaxed pace was like manna from heaven.

Eventually, the awful truth reared its ugly head. The time had come to reopen the East End Gallery. I had great plans to be dusted and cleaned and dressed appropriately for our relaunch into the remainder of 2020. Needless to say, I was not ready and I was limp with a lack of enthusiasm a mere four days ago. I had not clapped eyes on the Gallery in two and a half months and my loss of knowledge and understanding of all involved was very real indeed.

Then on Friday, I felt that familiar stirring of vim, vigour and vitality. I decided to move a few items around to familiarise myself with them once more. That was a major mistake on my behalf. I proceeded to upend the Giftshop and to a lesser extent, the Gallery, give them a bloody good shake and see where they landed.

My rearrangement of works took three days. I finally finished last night at about half-past six. Michael had already returned home but I was caught up in the thrill of photographing the revised layout. That was then I heard the unmistakable "drip...drip...drip". However, thanks to Michael's prolonged and excellent efforts with silicone and bitumen paint on the roof, that was the one and only leak. I placed a bucket under the dripping and came home in triumph.

Have I my mojo back? You bet your sweet nippy. 2020 continues to be a Year of Wonders, but I am learning to go with the flow of change. I am revelling once more in my role at the East End Gallery. I am well and truly back in the saddle. Hiho Silver. Away!

Except I tore my frock during my impersonations of a whirling dervish and it needs mending...Bollocks.

Snapshot of the East End Gallery and Giftshop - 24 May 2020