Glancing Back

Always there are the moments we never seem
to forget: the sweat sad ghosts of sweet
rave nights, and screwed down cigarettes.

I remember that I spent at least three mildly angst-ridden years, during what was I think an indifferent kind of youth, keeping company with a somewhat pretty, dark-haired young woman who could never make up her mind.  This girl used so much grass you could have nick named her “couch”. Sitting cross-legged on her rumpled bed, eyes glazed, and her sweet mouth splitting from five different types of grins, she would roll out endless plans for the both of us; fat roaches full of choices, the discussion of which was best not refused.

But then again, she was a fanatic vegetarian who eschewed the flesh of this world in favour of kidney beans and herbal teas. She forced me on occasions to imbibe foul-tasting comfrey when I had raging flu or simple colds, always breakfasted on the lounge room floor on Vegemite and toast, and encouraged me in the habit of tobacco – an addiction I have till this day.

So, after I was firmly hooked on her and our love affair, she decided to give up smoking herself. I was then berated for months on end as to the state of my own health. She still kept using the drugs though and wanted at one precious, lost moment, to have our child. We were to escape to the outback of country New South Wales, city life at that time of legend being the epitome of the evils of the later twentieth century.

For the purposes of this short fiction, let’s call her Cat. She was enrolled at New South Wales University for a time, studying economic history and complaining endlessly about the Basser Steps. For those who like exact geography, they run in the open uphill from the top of College Road past the Basser College, and on to University Walk and the centre of the Campus itself. In those days gone by they were more commonly referred to as “the idiot stairs”. If you venture on them wearing a wraparound dress and carrying a string bag full of books and your pencils, you can’t quite get up a proper striding rhythm as you walk. It’s really no better in a suit with a fountain pen; in shorts and thongs with a biro, or in jeans either – one and one half steps or strides on and off, all the way to the top. Cat always claimed that making this improbable journey a couple of days a week gave her the idea for her doctoral thesis topic. Of course, she never managed to complete even the undergraduate degree – that was as I remember, the winningness of Cat.

Finally, and painfully, our time having been spent, we parted ways. Some years afterward, when I returned from a long sojourn overseas, I heard she had married and then wound up somewhere out west in the dry baked back blocks of the bush. But it’s been still more years than I feel like really counting now, and I have never heard another whisper of Cat.

Underneath it all though, I know I still miss the girl. I don’t use myself anymore and have more or less left off the gentle sport of drinking, but as I’ve said I still smoke; and it’s in fact really the century after our time. In the passing decades, I’ve managed to finish my own mostly useless degree, travelled a bit more, and had a purely accidental career of sorts in the City. Finally, I have collapsed back into the old habits once again – long, idle days of gossip, the questionable pursuit of art through occasional scribblings like this, and the reading of too many dog-eared books.

Anyway, I have another splendid, loyal girl now who loves me in the real world. I find myself living in sunny, inner city Erskineville – a short uphill stroll from King Street in the precarious republic of Newtown – and it’s almost a peaceful, productive kind of life at that. Then I go on some days to think I am in truth, just deep down, some sort of failed, aged urban hippie. And then, living maybe in what amounts to “an after-dinner sleep” (something that happens to often these days after a good cafe lunch), I often without any particular purpose still find myself dreaming of the distant country and Cat.

I should say that the idea for this current diatribe came to me as I sat on the stone wall of a planter bed by the rubbish bin in the square, outside of the Bakery on Erskineville road. It was a late autumn afternoon – warm, with a slight chill hidden in the evening’s approaching shadows. I was idly watching the grumbling traffic and the other passers-by. Grey Trilby, greying hair shaved back to the skull; a t-shirt and knee-length shorts; an ear-ring stuck jauntily in my left ear. I was also, of course, smoking yet another endless, hand-rolled, sneaky cigarette. The title of that unwritten economic history thesis? Would you like to know? It was “Urbanisation and the decline of the village idiot”. Funny that.

If Operating Systems were Airlines

And so our swift-flowing stream of exquisite dribble continues … how far will it go? I found this piece hanging around in a prose-other directory  on my desktop … I’m pretty sure it’s not mine; its to cleanly written; and it actually exhibits a fine sense of, well, fun …

UNIX Airlines

Each passenger brings a piece of the airplane and a box of tools to the airport. They gather on the tarmac, arguing constantly about what kind of plane they want to build and how to put it together. Eventually, they build several different aircraft, but give them all the same name. Some passengers actually reach their destinations.  All the passengers believe they got there.

MacOS Air

You enter a white terminal, and all you can see is a woman sitting in the corner behind a white desk, you walk up to get your ticket. She smiles and says “Welcome to MacOS Air, please allow us to take your picture” – at which point a camera in the wall you didn’t notice before takes your picture. “Thank you, here is your ticket” You are handed a minimalistic ticket with your picture at the top and it already has all of your information. 

A door opens to your right and you walk through. All the stewards, stewardesses, captains, baggage handlers, and ticket agents look the same, act the same, and talk the same. Every time you ask questions about details, you are told you don’t need to know, don’t want to know, and would you please return to your seat and watch the movie.  

You spend nearly the whole flight time trying to decide which one of the thousand movies to watch and when you arrive, you realise you’ve forgotten about the in-flight meal.

Windows Airlines

You enter a good-looking terminal with the largest planes you have ever seen. Every ten feet a security officer appears and asks you if you are sure you want to continue walking to your plane and if you would like to cancel. Not sure what cancel would do, you continue walking and ask the agent at the desk why the planes are so big. After the security officer makes sure you want to ask the question and you want to hear the answer, the agent replies that they are bigger because it makes customers feel better, but the planes are designed to fly twice as slow, adding that the size helped to achieve the slow fly goal.

Once on the plane, every passenger has to be asked individually by the flight attendants if they are sure they want to take this flight. Then it is company policy that the captain asks the passengers collectively the same thing again. After answering yes to so many questions, someone asks you, “Are you sure you want me to punch you in the face? Cancel or Allow?” You instinctively say “Allow”. The stranger then punches you in the face. 

After take-off, the pilots realize that the landing gear driver wasn’t updated to work with the new plane. Therefore it is always stuck in the down position. This forces the plane to fly even slower, but the pilots are used to it and continue to fly the planes, hoping that soon the landing gear manufacturer will give out a landing gear driver update. 

You arrive at your destination wishing you had used your reward miles with MacOS Air rather than trying out this new carrier. A close friend, after hearing your story, mentions that there is a rumour in the market that Windows will soon be taken over by a new airline next week – Windows Air Plus – similar setup but fewer questions about whether you want to take the flight and undercarriage that actually retracts right from the start… 

In the mean time you read in the press that at least five Windows planes have fallen out of the sky this morning due to an inability to maintain anything like the minimum air speed for sustained flight.

Linux Air 

Disgruntled employees of all the other OS airlines decide to start their own airline. They build the planes, ticket counters, and pave the runways themselves. They charge a small fee to cover the cost of printing the ticket, but you can also download and print the ticket yourself. 

When you board the plane, you are given a seat, four bolts, a wrench and a copy of the seat-HOWTO.html. Once settled, the fully adjustable seat is very comfortable; the plane leaves and arrives on time without a single problem and the in-flight meal is wonderful. You try to tell customers of the other airlines about the great trip, but all they can say is: “You had to do what with the seat?” 

Mac IOS Airlines 

The experience is very similar to MacOS; except there are many, many more passengers and flights. For the exorbitant ticket price, the planes seem ridiculously small and sleek.  

The cabin crew are even blander and there is an even more bewildering choice of movies. Inflight meals now are charged for separately and have to be eaten with your fingers.

A little family history

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Blessing Stuckgold was the daughter of Moritz Stuckgold and Rosa Stuckgold (nee Fels, daughter of Frederick). She was my Father’s elder sister, my beloved Aunt Bronia. Moritz Stuckgold was the first Managing Director of City Loan, Mortgage and Finance. My Father was named for his Grandfather – he was Frederick Stuckgold. In the latter part of her life, Bronia lived with her companion, Mary Goddard, in Avenue Road Mosman. She passed away circa 1981. She was cremated at North Shore and her ashes were spread  among the Gardens. Moritz and Fred  are also interred there. My grandmother Rosa lies separately at Rookwood, most likely alongside her Father, Frederick Fels. Now read on …

HERITAGE
May – June 2010
by Pamela Smith BA (Hons.)
History, Springwood Historians

Have you ever wondered how
streets, parks and other landmarks
acquire their names?

Fels Avenue, located in the vicinity
of Springwood Public School, for
example, was named for Frederick
Fels who purchased land there in
the latter part of the 1890s.

Fels, born in Warsaw Poland in
1858, travelled to England then to
America in the 1880s, on the pretext
of buying goods for his business.
He left behind a wife, who he
subsequently divorced, and several
children when he married his
second wife, Dora.

Relatives consider the pair had
been previously acquainted before
Dora left Poland destined for
America and marriage.

Frederick married Dora when her first
marriage arrangement did not take
place.

The couple arrived in Australia in
1889 where Frederick manufactured
butter coolers and canvas bags
before moving into the more
lucrative market of money lending
initially financed by his wife.

Dora, an enterprising lady, set up
her own dressmaking business
which perhaps gained her the title
of Madame Fels.

It seems that Frederick was ever
mindful of his debt to the deserted
family in Warsaw because he sent
money back when he was
financially able.

Son Stanley migrated to Australia in
1896, and moved in with Frederick
and Dora when they lived at
Annandale.

Stanley’s arrival – and perhaps the
financial position of Dora and
Frederick – encouraged the
migration of the remaining Fels
family.

The Springwood property
was purchased by Frederick and Dora in
1899. It comprised of several acres of
land forming the border between
Valley Heights and what is now Springwood.

Frederick Somers had been the
original owner of a conditional
purchase in the 1880s. The
property had been put in Dora’s
name which was common practice
for that time because it safeguarded
the wife in the event of her
husband’s bankruptcy or eluded
death duties if he died.

In 1900, the Fels moved into their
newly built Springwood home. Fels
Ridge/ Felsridge, as it was known,
was a stunning example of early
uncluttered Federation-style
architecture. As the photograph
below illustrates, several t all
chimneys soared high above the
tiled roofline of the commodious
brick home, while the front veranda
and upper storey balcony
overlooked a wonderful circular
driveway.

The driveway and remnants of what
had been a well-attended garden
(although greatly reduced in size)
were still intact when an inspection
of the property was made in 2000,
as was part of the original house.

Financially comfortable, the Fels
were able to employ Thomas Jones
and George Mills as gardeners and
to attend to any maintenance of
Felsridge. Double gates located on
Bathurst (now Macquarie Road)
once marked the entrance to the
property.

Dora and Frederick continued in
their separate businesses and
Frederick, who was described as a
‘financier,’ occupied rooms at 295
Pitt Street, Sydney.

In a move that would prove
unfortunate the childless couple
adopted Dora’s niece and
Frederick’s granddaughter.

In 1907, Frederick was a trustee of
Martins Lookout. He is said to have
had a great fondness for the local
flora and fauna of the area and – at
his own expense – put a man to
work clearing a track some two or
three miles out from Springwood.

The Nepean Times newspaper later
regaled the splendour of hidden
streams, tumbling clear pristine
waterfalls and stalactites,
unhindered and undisturbed, which
formed from the minerals in the
water. Rare ferns grew in great
profusion along the track and great
stacks of giant logs lay petrified on
the wilderness floor.

A public spirited man, Frederick
donated a sum of money to the
Springwood School of Arts building
fund in 1907.

In 1908, he was elected vice
president along with Messrs.
Charles Rosenthal, Grant and
Foster and retained the position the
following year.

He was elected to the committee
when the first annual general
meeting was held in the newly
erected Springwood School of Arts
building, in 1913.

Fels was also a member of the
Springwood Progress Association.
During 1908, Frederick – with the
assistance of Mr Maidment,
proprietor of the Royal Hotel –
installed a Rider-Eriksson hot air
engine on the Springwood property
to pump water for domestic and
irrigation purposes from the gullies
below the house. There is no evidence
to suggest if they were successful.

In 1914, Frederick founded the
Mortgage and Loan Finance
Company of Australia.

Sadly, he died the following year .
The years following Frederick’ s
death were troubled and turbulent
for Dora and the trouble stemmed
from the earlier adoptions.

Frederick’s first wife appealed his
will because most of his estate had
been bequeathed to their mutual
granddaughter, Miss Blessing Fels-
Stuckgold.

Eventually the Supreme Court
overturned the terms of Frederick’ s
will and the estate was divided
between Blessing and Frederick’ s
first wife.

The latter died five years later and
rests, perhaps somewhat
uncomfortably, with Frederick in
Rookwood Cemetery.

Fels is remembered in the
Springwood street name.
The name of Miss Blessing Fels-
Stuckgold appeared in local
newspapers around 1915, along
with other young ladies who raised
funds for wounded soldiers during
the First World War.

Like most of the other large estates
in the area the Fels estate was
subsequently subdivided and Dora,
or Madame Fels, left the mountains
around 1920.

Family information suggested she
lived in Mosman during the early
1930s, however, the date and place
of her death are unknown.

Local myth had the house burnt to
the ground in the 1968 fires,
however, an inspection in 2000
revealed that the central spine of
the house remained intact along
with the driveway, a well in the
garden and plants from the original
garden.

Today the property is known as Blue
Gum Lodge and functions as an
Anglican Youthworks Outdoor
Centre.

References:
Blue Mountains City Council Image Collection.
Nepean Times, Various editions.
New South Wales Births, Deaths
and Marriage indexes.
Sands Indexes, Various editions.
Springwood Historians, The Making
of a Mountain Community: A
Biographical Dictionary of the
Springwood District.

Frederick Fels’ children were more or less Rosa, Stella and Stanley Fels. While Stanley was Frederick’s son, it’s not entirely clear who Stanley’s Mother was: family rumour suggested that Stanley may have been illegitimate.

The court case, dealing with  Frederick’s Estate, was appealed all the way to the Privy Council. It can be found as Fels vs. Fels, in  Kings Bench.

Frederick Stuckgold met his Grandmother, Frederick Fels’ first wife, in Palestine circa 1940. How she might have come to be interred beside him at Rookwood at a later date seems quite a mystery.

Dora Fels lived in St Elmo Street Clifton Gardens. Her house still stands today.

Freddy Stuckgold, of 40 Redan Street Mosman, married twice and had a son and a daughter. His daughter was named Vivian Stuckgold. She herself is interred in the graveyard of the village of Kefar Tavor in the northern Galilee. Her children and grandchildren still live in the modern state of Israel today.

I am, of course, Fred’s son.

Erskineville, NSW 2018.

Photo Graphics Gallery

I’ve been taking snap shots now for over half a life time. My efforts began with a small Olympus point and Shoot in 1981; then I graduated to a Pentax Super-a. Remember the joy of handing in your film and getting the packet back only to find half your efforts were blurry or over-exposed ? Then came that wonder, the beginning of the digital age! These days I use Sony Alpha cameras and do my own “developing” on the Desktop with a huge range of tool options – Adobe products, Capture-one,  Apple professional products and so on. I’ve found that my knowledge of computing combined with a reasonable eye and a few of the “Missing Manuals” has made me into a bit of a Digital Artist . See the results of my labours at

photographics.sionit.com.au

P.S. nearly all the images on this site are also by me ! What fun !

Stranger than fiction

One goes through life imagining that the phrase is a tired, hackneyed truism; and then the extraordinary occurs: an object lesson …

Hi Judy,

I won’t make Jane’s reading tonight, but if I could catch you up on  the Thursday that would be just great. Is 4 pm okay? I know you’ll be classing on the 25th, but I think I’ll wait for the next one before that to launch back or ease  into harness again as it were … I presume from what I’ve seen, a fortnight after that?

While I’m here, a stranger-than-fiction story  for today.  Some time back a cousin of mine was getting into my ear that I should try my hand at the terrible blogging. As it happens, I have a fairly basic web site already for our business. The host organisation for that,  Adobe, has just announced it is shutting down its service – a royal pain, but not illogical as Adobe mainly provides software for photo graphics, film editing and general publication design – the web hosting was really just an added extra; and these days, the market is pretty saturated with such offerings.

Anyway, I have to redo my sites and find a new host. As part of the fun, I thought I might as well try my hand at the blogging as well.

So, this afternoon I was idly trying to come up with a Blog title and somehow arrived at the phrase “Parnassus on Wheels”. The idea seemed to shoot  up from a memory of an old illustration in a “Pick of Punch” that I inherited from my Dad —  it was a circa 19th century cartoon of a huge pantechnicon or tumbril cart about to charge down from the top of a hill.  The cart was loaded with a vast, heaving, fighting mass of figures — politicians, farmers, tinkers, tailors, artists, writers, ladies of ill-repute, soldiers and so forth …

I set the basics up and then went googling for some useful photos or general information on Parnassus.  Imagine my surprise, wonder and laughter, when I came across this Wiki link:

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parnassus_on_Wheels

Something else to hunt up on ABE Books and read … especially as the main character’s name is … well, me … 

Hope 26th will suit you Judy. Very much looking forward to seeing you …

Love

A.

P.S.  I have just found the text in Gutenberg online  … 

“I wonder if there isn’t a lot of bunkum in higher education? I never found that people who were learned in logarithms and other kinds of poetry were any quicker in washing dishes or darning socks. I’ve done a good deal of reading when I could, and I don’t want to “admit impediments” to the love of books, but I’ve also seen lots of good, practical folk spoiled by too much fine print. Reading sonnets always gives me hiccups, too.

I never expected to be an author! But I do think there are some amusing things about the story of Andrew and myself and how books broke up our placid life. When John Gutenberg, whose real name (so the Professor says) was John Gooseflesh, borrowed that money to set up his printing press he launched a lot of troubles on the world.

Andrew and I were wonderfully happy on the farm until he became an author. If I could have foreseen all the bother his writings were to cause us, I would certainly have burnt the first manuscript in the kitchen stove.”

Excerpt From: Christopher Morley’s  Parnassus on Wheels

Dormivegilia

 

For what might have been a month, after passing through the gates of Horn with their intricate filigrees of beasts and battles, they camped at the foot of the mountain. There in what they thought was a true heart-wood glade, they pitched their tents and tethered their tired horses.

With charcoal from the fire and sticks of finely pressed colour that they had carried with them, they covered every part of their shelters in what they could remember of the language of their intentions. And yet, despite those careful efforts, each night outside the circle of the fire that which was unknown still moved among the trees, seemingly intent on testing, then breaching the camp’s boundaries.

In the repetition of those dark hours, their ability to rest also became elusive. Instead, there were drifting fragments and patterns that plagued the corners of their unfocused eyes: then often, having reached an almost feverish point of exhaustion, each would suffer sudden agonising spasms in the muscles of their legs or at their throats; and all, apparently, without clear reason.

Time itself did not move there properly either. If they could have caught its passing in some tangible form, it would have been as a sketch of a bird with damaged wings that rising up from the page, would slowly drag itself across the clearing, finally to hide somewhere deep among the discoloured bracken and detritus of the forest floor.

Dormevegilia
(ital.) (n.) the space that stretches between sleeping and waking