The Show
The biggest event of the year was the Beenleigh Agricultural Show. The community eagerly looked forward to it for months beforehand and talked about nothing else. It happened each September after the westly winds blew winter’s frosts away. The local farmers entered the show’s competitions with their animals and spring’s harvest. They also keenly awaited the latest machinery for sale even if they weren’t buying. The car dealerships promoted their newest cars they’d display at the show. They rubbed their hands in anticipation of the vehicles they’d sell by peer group pressure. Women baked for competitions to protect or to gain their reputations as the best bakers in the surrounds. They also grew the brightest flowers for their floral arrangements. The young women vied with each other to be crowned the Show Princess.
The show and its gala ball kept Mother busy for weeks ahead sewing ballgowns and day dresses for clients. She laid yards of coloured fabric out on every spare surface at home. Her wealthier ladies planned their outfits well in advance and insisted theirs surpass everybody else’s in style and discussion amongst the community. When they came for their fittings, Mother carefully hid other works in progress. As the women gushed over their beautiful dresses, she beamed with delight.
Sadly, she never saw the gowns, she sewed, worn to the ball. Dad wouldn’t take her. He insisted that dancing was against his religious conviction. I thought what conviction given his acquaintanceship with lowlifes. Besides, Mother wasn’t a Lutheran. She could dance respectably too.
Going to the show was really about been seen there and seeing others. Everybody who was anybody went. The event added colour to people’s otherwise drab existence. Women wore their best frocks and accessorised these with stylish shoes, handbags and hats. Mother’s outfit was always resplendent. The women walked around the Exhibition Hall appearing to be interested in the exhibits. In reality, they were exhibiting their outfits; using each time they stopped to chat as an opportunity to do so. Mother revelled in the envious glances hers gained. Me, I preferred to watch the Grand Parade where the farmers showed their horses and cattle. As a young boy, I imagined a bull escaping its handler and causing uproar amongst the audience. This never happened.
The bright lights of sideshow alley always lit my eyes up. Mother called the alley the money pit. She said carnies fleeced showgoers. She was right! Every game was rigged. I often watched the teenage lads try their luck at the duck target shooting. They never won any substantial prizes. Yet, I knew some were crack shots and could shoot a duck flying overhead. When I was young, Mother allowed me one ride on the merry-go-round. When I was older, I kept an eye on the ground for tickets dropped by the ticket collectors and squandered very little of my hard earnt pocket money on rides.
At lunch time, Mother and I met her sisters to share a picnic and to watch the woodchopping competition. I think they liked to see the woodchoppers’ bare shoulders, rippling muscles and arms glistening with sweat. Being of Scottish descent, they also liked to hear the Scottish pipe bands play. I loved this especially. I thought the bagpipes were such a weird looking contraption and was fascinated by their ability to produce noise.
Mother always left Dad at the front gate. When she disappeared; he snuck off to the bar tent to join his disreputable mates. Early in the afternoon, once the bar crowd had consumed sufficient liquid courage to be full of bravado, the fights promoter opened the boxing tent. The men jostled, with their admission fees in their hands, to be at the front of the line, keen to stand ringside. The spruiker stood in the ring, goading local hopefuls to fight the show’s boxers for a few pounds prize money. The audience made bets amongst itself as the fights promoter didn’t run a legal tab. The competition was set up to entertain the crowd rather than be a fair game. Most of the hopefuls were hopeless and fell to the mat quickly. They didn’t have a soft landing either. The mat was merely a tarp covering hard ground. My father fantasised about boxing in the ring though he was now too old and sensible to be so stupid. In his younger days, he saw success in the boxing ring as a ticket out of poverty. He had trained ready for his turn on the mat but saved his face by misfortune. He fell off a bicycle and broke his arm beforehand. By the time, I was old enough to enter the boxing tent, I valued my brain and my body too much to fight.
When I was nine, the show opened another door for me. The Show Society ran drawing competitions in concert with the local schools and gave free entry passes to exhibitors. I drew a rural scene of a barn with pastels. A cow stood in its yard behind a slip rail fence, and in the background, was a haystack. At that time, haystacks dotted farms everywhere. I was excited to receive my free entry ticket. I had never received anything for free before. Mother and I checked out the exhibits in the pavilion. I wanted to see my drawing on display. I had made a decent effort with it. We couldn’t find it anywhere amongst the pictures of cats, dogs and flowers. I felt despondent. Mother turned toward a huge wall. Displayed prominently on it was my drawing! She exclaimed in surprise. Next to it, a blue ticket was pinned. It had won first prize! I was surprised too and chuffed with myself. We looked around to see if other Waterford students had won prizes. Zilch! Only me! My teacher even walked up to us to congratulate me.
Apparently, I had a natural eye for spatial dimensions and perspective and could replicate these on paper. My talents were beginning to reveal themselves to me.
Seeing my picture and my name proudly displayed in front of the whole community meant I was somebody, not a nobody hardly anybody cared about. I didn’t think about besting other people. I was just hungry for approval and recognition. Over the coming years, various show competitions gave me this. A child of no hope became one of hope.
