Still Scribbling

When Pocket Park is up and running in Deloraine who or what will take centre stage I wonder. Will we mooch along to hear bearded men bang on about politics; will obscure Appalachian folk music enhance the buying of turnips in the veggie shop across the road; will feisty women in lace-up boots bellow slam poetry.

Probably all of the above. This could be a winner. There’s every chance the school teacher, the car mechanic and the bloke who prunes the trees in your garden will say ‘bugger it, I’m having a go.’

And there’s something comforting about that. We like seeing people we know engaging in public spectacle. No-one cares if you’re making a dog’s breakfast of Moon River or you can’t play the 12-string to save yourself. You’re one of us and we admire your pluck. It’s a bit like watching Bay of Fires on television and knowing all the places on the screen.

Personally I’m hoping the kids put on a show. Few things bring an indulgent smile to the face more so than children dancing, singing and reciting. Provided of course they make it quick and don’t overstay their welcome, which some do and you end up shouting for them to shut up and then they cry. Far better if you promise them a choc top to make it snappy.

I speak from experience. When I was about nine my siblings and I starred in backyard concerts at home. Sometimes neighbourhood pals were dragged in as extras. Mum and dad, plus parents of the aforementioned pals, would be lined up on chairs we’d carted out from the kitchen and we’d throw ourselves into action.

Sunday afternoons must have been a trial for adults, but we performers gave it our all. After pegging a tatty canvas backdrop from a local production of Oklahoma or Maid of the Mountains to the clothesline there was no stopping us. Me mainly. I’d do an impassioned but dreadful version of a Spanish dance, with extras working the wobbly turntable while shouting “senorita” and “toreador”. This was followed by a group number featuring kids with arms around each other singing a cowboy song. And the big finale was always a small play which involved copious amounts of mum’s bright red lipstick as fake blood and lots of dashing behind the backdrop.

When the show was over the audience would heave sighs of relief and quickly grab the chairs to put back round the kitchen table. Mum would occasionally have a sherry and work out a place to hide her lipstick. Dad would lift the top off a long neck. The backdrop with its faded images of fairy castles and flowery mountain tops would be yanked down and bunched up and the spaniels Flair and Daisy would make themselves comfy on it.

Of course the performances were always subject to weather conditions, as no doubt they will be at Pocket Park. Given our concerts were in Queenstown there were frequent cancellations. Rain stopped the play, as it were.