writing booklet 2012

7/30/2019 Writing Booklet 2012

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C O N T E N T S

A FATAL TWIST.................................................Frank Foley

A WORLD THAT INSPIRES..................................Beth Coote

ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE.......................................Pam Stewart

EARLY MORNING......................................A Mystery Writer

SO YOU WANT THIS JOB?..................................Owen Clark

THE RED SCARF............................................Shirley Heading

BORDERLINE...................................................Trevor Rogers

These articles are chosen by members of a Balwyn Central Probus group called

Writing For Pleasure. No reason is given for the personal choice, and they

might not be our best writing, but we would like to share something of what

we do each fortnight with you. We hope you enjoy reading them.

Cover Page from Google Images.


4/16

A Fatal Twist

The muscular man lounged against the far wall of the room in his black and white tee shirt

with horizontal stripes and neckerchief. A gold earring in his right ear and a black eye-patch

adorned his completely bald head. She stood next to him, raven hair, red lips and dark eyes,

and wearing a blue Shantung dress. She was a vamp with a capital V, and every mothers

nightmare. To her left was a man in a trench coat. With his collar turned up and his hat

pulled down over his right eye, little of his face was discernible, except for his prominent,

square jaw. Next to him was a short, scruffy man in a leather jacket. Balding, with sinister,

beady eyes, he, like his friend in the tee shirt, was not a person you would like to meet in a

dark alley. Completing the group was a tall, silver-haired man in a tuxedo. Distinguished

looking, his expensive rings and gold watch screamed wealth. They were all staring

expectantly at the man sitting at the desk with the typewriter.

Well, what now? said the man with the eye-patch.

The woman said, Please dont expect me to stand here all night looking sexy, Dave, while

you struggle with another storyline.

Give me a break, Dave said, Its not that easy. But, ok, you want a storyline. Here goes.

Dave turned to his typewriter It was a dark and stormy night, he began.

************************************

The rain hammered against my window pane and the flickering neon sign outside mywindow produced an eerie light in the dim, dingy office which was my home away from

home. It had been a hard day , and I was working on a bourbon and dry with my feet up on

the desk, and contemplating a stop at McGintys Bar and Grill for a nightcap on my way

home.

Then she walked into my office. I thought for a second she must have been lost; but then a

trip up three flights of rickety and badly lit stairs is not something you would do if you dont

know where youre going. She was slim and gorgeous, with more curves than a mountain

highway. As she got closer and the flickering light fell upon her face, I could see her eyes

were red, as if she had been crying.

Areyou Mike Chisel, the private detective? she asked.

Just like the name on the door says, doll, what can I do for you? I answered.

Please, you must help me. My name is Laura Steele, and Im afraid my husband is trying to

kill me.

Now why would hewant to do that? I asked. Insurance, another woman, perhaps (Id

love to meet her I thought to myself).


5/16

I dont know, but he has been acting so strangely. There have been mysterious phone calls

and he treats me so coldly these days she said. Now things have happened that I cant

ignore. The other day the brakes on my car failed. Fortunately, I was on the flat at the time

and able to pull over onto the gravel. The mechanic on the scene told me it looked as if the

brake line was cut. We live up a mountain road; and if it happened on that stretch, Im sureId be dead now. Then yesterday, he insisted we go for a walk to the cliff near our home.

We seemed to be getting closer and closer to the edge; as I turned back from the view to

look at him, he was coming toward me with arms outstretched and a menacing look in his

eyes. But a hello from one of our neighbours, who was out walking his dogs, brought him

up quickly, and his demeanour changed instantly. Im so afraid that, next time, there will be

no stopping him.

I can see why youre afraid; but why did you choose to come to me? I asked.

My husband is Roger Steele, the wealthy entrepreneur. He knows everyone and everyone

knows him. I had to find someone well off his radar, which meant coming across to this side

of town. I cant even trust the police.

Ok Ill take your case; itll cost you a hundred bucks a day plus expenses.

There is something else, Laura said. I believe Im being followed by two men, one short

and scruffy and the other a rough, weightlifter type. Ive seen them several times in the

past few days.

Do you think they followed you here? I asked.

I dont know, but Im very afraid, and I need you to see me to a hotel.(There goes McGintys, I thought.)

We walked out of the building and across the street to the bus stop. As we stood under the

street light, Laura suddenly looked frightened. There they are, she said, and she turned

and bolted into a nearby alley. I called after her to wait, but she kept going, and so I took

off after her.

I had nearly caught up with her when, passing a darkened door way, I suddenly felt a hand

grab my shoulder followed by a sharp pain in my head. The next thing I remember is waking

up in that alley in the rain. There was a note pinned to my lapel. Unravelling it I read thewords, If you want to see the dame alive, go to the old Sloanes Paper warehouse near the

docks and make it quick.

Even though I was pretty fuzzy in the head, I had a strong feeling that things werent all that

they seemed. Questions began whirring around in my brain. What could the husbands

motive be? Why did Laura choose to run down this dark alley, and why was there someone

waiting to bash me on the head? Most puzzling of all, if murder was the objective, why give

me a chance to save her at a warehouse five miles away? Then it hit me. I was being duped.

I picked myself up and sprinted back to the street to hail a cab. It was only a five minute trip

to the Corona Apartments, but still I was afraid I might be too late.


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I burst through the front door of the apartment building, brushing some executive types

aside as I pushed into the lift and hit the button for the fifth floor. I stopped outside

apartment 5D and heard several voices inside.

Now wait, cant we talk this over? It was Dave speaking.

Its too late for that, said a man with a gruff voice. This time its you, not us, who is goingto be erased.

Hold on; Im sure we can work something out to everyones satisfaction, Dave tried again.

Just do it, shoot him! It was Lauras voice. I like my character and I dont want to give it

up, she said.

That goes for me too, said another harsh male voice. Like he said, its you or us Dave,

and this time its going to be you!

I took out my pistol and pushed the door open, saying, Ill bet you wish you had locked thatnow

Bang! Bang! Bang! The muscular man and his short accomplice crumpled to the floor. Roger

Steele reached inside his tuxedo and produced a small revolver; but he was too slow. Bang!

Another shot and Roger slumped to the carpet.

Laura looked at me angrily, then, realising her situation, she softened. Im not armed, she

said.

Maybe not, but you are as dangerous as the rest, doll, I growled.

You cant shoot me, please; all I wanted was to keep on being me. You cant blame a girl

for trying, can you? she pleaded.

Dave smiled. Put the gun away Mike. I think we can accommodate Laura. Im sensing that

Laura is very sorry for being such a bad girl; so sorry, in fact, that it has brought on a

religious experience. Yes, thats it, she has seen the light, and has determined to see out the

rest of her days... in a convent.

Laura fainted, as Dave and I exchanged smiles.

So, I think you can call ita night Mike, and thanks for the rescue, said Dave.

Dont mention it Dave. Weve been a team for a long time now - wouldnt want to break up

the partnership.

Well, Dave said, Id better get on with making a few alterations to my story, eh Mike?

Why dont you stop by McGintys on the way home? I have a feeling the place is going to be

open very late tonight. McGintys birthday Im thinking, and the drinks will be on the

house for all of his regulars.

Enjoy, Mike, Dave called out, as I closed the door behind me and headed out into that

dark and stormy night.


7/16

Poetry was never my strong point at school,

I would avoid it if I could,

Yet when I read Wordworths poems

And understood them; like good omens,

It gave new dimensions of understanding,

Why poetry is so outstanding.

I think of the imagery poetry has brought,

And with this thought,

I look forward to sharing with all

Words written, as on a large wall;

About life in all its glory

That tells a wonderful story.

The story when looking at nature

One sees flora, fauna and nurture,

Bright and stunningly beautiful,

Standards set for words that are dutiful.

Our culture contrives and inspires

To give us a world that one admires.

Flora, fauna captured on stamps

Vivid in colour, like lights on lamps,

Blown by the wind and burnt by the sun.

Washed by waves on the run,

Nourishment that is given to make us strong,

Cultivation and nurture where we belong.

Onward and outward time marches on,Giving life an abundance therein

To achieve what is meaningful in life,

By going to lengths to protect wildlife.

In lifes glory freedom is a must

For when we die it is dust to dust.

Beth Coote

August 2012


8/16

AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE

Helens shack lay off the main Marysville to Narbethong Road in the heavily timbered ranges

to the east of Melbourne. It was hidden from the view of passing motorists and wagon

drivers, carting their logs to the nearby processing area.

A sturdy, formerly totally self-reliant woman, shed chosen this isolated spot after the

Second World War in which her husband, Des, had fought. He hadnt returned . The letter

informed: Missing, presumed dead On one of the islands in the Pacific War Zone. Theyd

had little time together, so there was no family.

Her niece Peg would come to check on her with the children, Billy and Andrea. They were

teenagers now. They had their interests in the city. Just like their dad, the mad keen

Richmond supporter in winter, the fisherman down the Bellarine past Geelong, most

summer week-ends. A break from the factory machines and Peg would explain all this toHelen, each time she drove up alone to visit her.

Helen had had a dog for company over the years. Several lay buried in the patch of garden

at the back. Each had accompanied her during their lifetimes as she walked the bush tracks

through the neighbouring forest reserve. They would walk for hours, enjoying the smell of

the bush: the gums, the wattles, the sighting of kangaroos, wallabies and a great variety of

birds. Helen noted the birdsong, the kookaburras laugh, the red and blue flash of the

rosellas wings, the green and yellow of the Eastern lorikeet that fed on the gum blossom.

But now her body had slowed. There was no dog for company. She was always glad to learn

that Peg was coming up for a day or two.

Helens shack was built of weatherboards, scrambled together over the years. It was In need

of paint with Its corrugated roof rusting in places.

Peg had arrived after lunch on Thursday and by evening had cut back all the bushes growing

around the place. The threat of fire was very great every summer. There was, therefore, no

tree growing around the shack.

The following day Pegs husband, Ernie, rang her mobile from Portarlington where he was

fishing with his mates. He advised them to leave Friday night. Take Helen with her. Helen

reckoned she was no quitter. Tell him that. Besides, she had two tanks of water and a

sprinkler system, to boot. Any stray embers in the guttering, she reckoned on climbing up to

remove them. Pigheaded. Ernie replied when Peg relayed this news.

Lunchtime Saturday and Ernie rang again. The winds up, the fires travelling at the speed of

an express train! Please, Peg, tell her youve got to leave before its too late. I dont want

you to die. He was weeping. Get out. Go to the Community Hall to shelter. Okay. Will do,

she agreed.


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Helen, cranky at this news, went outside. Attempted to! The force of the wind blew the

kitchen door shut in her face. The heat was intense. Ginger, Pegs kelpie, cringed,

whimpering in a corner. He resisted being moved, but Peg dragged him across the gravel

towards her Plymouth Wagon parked in the driveway.

She and Helen climbed aboard. The dog sat between them, still whimpering, barking

occasionally. Peg started up the car. Tried three or four times; Feared flooding the engine;

Checked the petrol gauge; Should be right, she believed.

Terrified, Helen sat in the car and left without a backward glance.

Now, out to the bitumen; heading towards Narbethong. Ash particles clustered in the air,

swirling in front of them, their vision poor. The air; hot as an oven. The flame a giant wall to

their left, thrusting towards them and Helens little community of isolated souls.

Im so scared. Peg was screaming at Helen. I reckon were too late. And look at poor

Ginger. He seems to know well be lucky, so lucky to make it out. And Id say hes right. If we

stalled we might go up with it. But wed have no hope trying to outpace this. Jees we

couldnt fight this bloody inferno by running.

She stepped on the gas. Helen remained silent.

Oh my god, yelled Peg. No. Theyd rounded a bend and there, right across the road lay a

giant tree, a mountain ash, in all likelihood, blocking the road ahead of them.

Peg reached for the mobile. No response.

**********

Ernie checked with the Police. They rang back to report that neither the women, nor their

dog, had reached the safety of the Hall at the expected time. Dont worry, mate. Well go

out to meet them.

A young army reservist, Jon, accompanied the police driver. They drove along the

Narbethong- Marysville Road and came upon the women and their dog. All appeared to be

suffering smoke inhalation. They were dragged from their wagon to the police vehicle

waiting behind the fallen tree. An ambulance was called but a long delay was expected.

Peg looked up at the young army man; saw her rescuer as a hero. She didnt want him to

leave her side.

Pamela Stewart 2012


10/16

EARLY MORNING

Early morning, the sun was already high in the sky. Perfect for a stroll along the beach; A

warm breeze floating through the air.

Walking through the soft sand down to the waters edge, where the outgoing tide had left

firm sand. Small shells scattered, some perfect in their design, others having had a rough

time being broken and scarred. Little waves erasing footprints of people having been earlier

along the beach, the water was clear and most inviting. The sky was a deep blue, with just a

wisp of a cloud also enjoying the day. Colours of the sky reflected itself onto the ocean; with

the sun on the sea, sparkled at every movement.

A pretty sundress, bare so the sun could kiss the shoulders; walking through the small waves

barefoot, giving a sensation of being caressed.

Along the beach the landscape was filled with palm trees, some of their fruit lay in the sand.

The only birds that were visible were two sea eagles soaring with the breeze. A few keenrunners pass by with legs held high. Did they see the wonder of this wonderful beach? A

yoga class was being held, about ten beautiful bodies in their bikinis, exercising on their

colourful beach towels, a young woman taking them through their paces at ten dollars each.

Her job paid well, and she enjoyed it.

We were still walking through the gentle waves. We saw a young woman with a little girl,

who was paddling in her little pink frilly bathers; laughing and having a wonderful time.

A bucket and spade were at the ready to build the very best castle ever, with a moat.

Walking toward the headland, still a few miles to go, but it could take all day, as there was

not anywhere that could be as beautiful as this day. Several small canoes where pulled uponthe beach close to the trees, their coloured sails moving to the slight breeze. It looked as

though they were waiting for the many young people who would have fun riding on them,

later in the day.

A couple walked closer, and on reflection it was obvious that they were from one of the

many resorts behind the greenery. She was elderly, but stunning in a large hat, a sarong of

bright colours, and sequins that sparkled in the sunshine. Her partner had long white shorts

with a bright orange polo shirt open at his neck. No rushing: just silence; and enjoying the

tranquil morning.

Further on to the headland where the trees and bushes entwined at the waters edge,

gentle waves splashed the rocks with the rhythm of nature.

A turn around and the walk would prove to be different again, but still as beautiful as hand

in hand we looked into each others eyes, smiled, knowing that we were as one, enjoying

one of our most favourite places on earth. There was no need for words, as it seemed that

words would spoil the whole nature of this wonderful time and place.

BY A MYSTERY WRITER


11/16

SO YOU WANT THIS JOB? OWEN CLARK

What sort of machine is this? It vibrates viciously. Normally it runs hot; and still hotter if it is

not being worked hard enough. Its awkward. It will swing around and hit the operator if

they are not standing in the correct position. Its hard enough for a proficient operator. For

the learner it is volunteering for torture. And you expect me to work with this machine in

my hand eight hours a day to earn a living? You have to be joking. There are lots more,

easier jobs, more pleasant than this. No wonder the industry is suffering. And this is only

half the story.

The second part of the story is an animal. It will wriggle and kick and struggle, if it is not held

and treated correctly. If the body of the animal is not stretched, and the skin remains

wrinkled, it will be cut and the animal will suffer. A deep cut of a blood vessel, or the skin

requires the process to stop. The wound is then sewn with a flesh needle and thread. Some

Woolo, referred to as tar is placed on the wound to help with infection and prevent a

blow fly strike.

Special care is needed around the pizzle of a weather or ram and near the teats of a ewe. It

is so easy to cut off a ewes teat, which heals and seals, so it is then useless for providing a

lamb with milk; a tragedy for a good breeding ewe. Even more serious is to approach the

main tendon of a sheeps back leg from the wrong angle and cut it through. The sheep can

no longer walk and the best result is for it to be killed and eaten. A cut hamstring equals a

death sentence. Less serious is a cut ear. It will heal.

All this is to be kept in mind for a learner while holding the vicious, vibrating, hot handpieceof a shearing machine.

There is a certain pattern and stroke a shearer must learn, while holding the sheep correctly

with knees, body, feet and one free hand. Good experienced shearers may vary the

traditional pattern for speed.

The usual pattern and process is like this:- The sheep to be shorn are yarded the day before

shearing so they will be dry, and rested overnight. They wont have a full stomach. They

then weigh lighter, and their body is easier to bend. A sheep is caught from the pen, held by

both front legs, and skidded over the floor on its tail to a spot near the shearing machine.Bending very low from the hips, the shearers arm goes around both front legs and under

the head in order to lift the sheep to make the belly skin tight. Switching on the handpiece,

it is placed flat against a clear spot under the front leg and pushed downwards towards the

back leg, and the wool is broken to separate it from the better quality wool on the sheeps

side. The belly wool is considered inferior and is pressed in a separate bale.

The belly is shorn with mostly horizontal strokes, making sure the pizzle or teats are not cut.

The tops and insides of both back legs are shorn and the area under the tail. The left back

leg is completely shorn extending to the back bone.

Then a major shift of position occurs. One foot goes between the sheeps back legs, the


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other is shifted to steady the sheeps body. The head is held back gently by the free left

hand on the bottom jaw, and the wool is opened up from the brisket through to the head.

From this opening the wool is shorn back down the side, including the front leg.

In the next major position shift, the sheep is laid almost on its back with the shearers right

knee placed in its pelvis, and the left foot in a position to keep the sheeps underneathshoulder off the floor. If that shoulder were to slip and touch the floor, the sheep will

immediately try to get up. The shearers left hand pulls the sheeps head around the

shearers left leg to make the skin tight. This position is called the long blow, when the

shearer is able to shear wool in long strokes from the tail through to the head in one sweep

and eventually one blow over the sheeps backbone.

When this is done the sheep is gradually straightened up and the wool from its face right

down the last side is shorn. This includes the front leg, and continues down until the sheep

is completely shorn. Most of these strokes are horizontal. The sheep then goes into thecounting out pen, and the shearer goes to catch another woolly sheep and the whole

process begins again.

To shear the magic hundred a day, each sheep needs to be shorn in slightly less than five

minutes so an extra one can be done in a two hour shift. An experienced shearer can make

this whole process look easy.

A hopeful shearer was asked, How many sheep can you shear ina day?

He replied, A hundred.

He was then asked, Where have you shorn before?

I havent, was his reply.

How do you know you can shear a hundred? he was then asked.

Ive seen others do it. was his reply.

This young man was in for a big shock. To learn to shear is hard mentally, and physically. To

get everything right needs determination, practice, physical strength and coaching. For the

experienced shearer who keeps moving quickly for five minutes, the process is easier on

muscles and body. However, the time a learner will take is about thirty minutes. This means

that the physical discomfort for the beginner is many times harder and longer than for anexperienced shearer.

Shearing quickly means the cut wool keeps the handpiece reasonably cool. The learner

finds it hard to keep the handpiece at all times in the wool, so the comb and cutter get

hotter and hotter, smoking as the comb and cutter burn because they are so hot. Another

difficulty for the learner!

The wool of sheep contains burrs and prickles, and they wont go diagonally into the

shearers skin, but they do go straight in, making them very difficult to get out when the

shift, or days work is done. If they arent removed they are liable to fester.After the first days shearing, the learner is exhausted. Every muscle is sore, and he now has


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the tell tale shearers back with the obvious kink, as he tries to straighten up and walk.

Longing for rest, in bed there is no way to get comfortable. With one muscle resting,

another is aching. On the second day, every sore muscle screams with pain as they are used

again until all muscles are used, and become warm. This happens every day over a number

of days till the muscles are conditioned, and the body becomes reasonably pain free.

In winter and especially in summer, perspiration pours off the whole body, stinging eyes and

dripping off the nose. Shearers need to drink lots of water. Many drink alcohol; beer, even

rum at the end of the day, and in perspiring the next day, they can smell, even stink.

The pay is not great for the shearer, and especially as the price of wool is low.Ideas have been tried to reduce the physical load of shearing. One was a drench that caused

the sheep to shed its wool, but it came to nothing. Another was an iron frame to hold the

sheep while it was shorn. This has had limited use. A yoke attached to the roof, and placed

over the shoulders to give support to the back has been used often. An idea that came from

New Zealand of having wider combs and cutters to take wool off a greater area when

shearing, has helped.

Shearers are often not at home with their families during the week and they have to travel

to different places for their work. With sheep being bred larger and heavier why would

anyone want to learn to shear?

Yet the Australian sheep all get shorn once a year, and one can only admire the men, and

some women tough enough to do this work.

Would you like this job?


14/16

THE RED SCARF

Jenny was very excited today, as she had planned a visit to the art gallery. Jenny is five foot

nothing, her eyes are a deep blue with a little twinkle. Her hair is her crowning glory, long,

shiny and dark brown .Today she will be wearing her new jeans, a white t shirt with a peace

sign, and a fine red scarf, making her feel very arty.

As she arrived at the wonderful entrance to the gallery, she loved the water wall, ever

present, guiding her to the great wealth of talent inside. Today her main objective is to see

her favourite canvas.

As she walked through the gallery, the calm and tranquillity made her feel contented with

her surroundings. She was nearly there; excitement began to fill her body and mind. Good

morning, she said to the attendant. Being early the gallery was deserted. She knew that she

could stare in peace at this master painting, splendid in a gold frame.

Drawn down to the beach almost into the sea is an old fashioned bathing hut with large

wheels. A woman is emerging from the hut into the water, her bathers being a knee length

dress, with long black stockings and a mop cap to keep her hair dry. In the water are

gentlemen in their long costumes playing with little children also fully dressed. The sky is a

bright blue with a wisp of a cloud.

On the left side of the painting are rocks that jut onto the sand and out to the sea. The day

looks so inviting,

Suddenly she was there, on the beach walking in the sand, she took off her sandals and let

the sand trickle through her toes. She seemed to be unnoticed to the family on the beach. It

was such a wonderful day she decided that she would love a swim and walked to the rocks

where she could dress down to her underwear and sink into the warmth of the gentle

waves. After sometime she dressed, and in the moment, she was standing looking at the

picture in the gallery with a group of tourist and a guide explaining the era of the canvas.

Was she dreaming: did she really enter into that world?

The guide was explaining the picture to a group, he looked surprised as he looked closer at a

red scarf placed on the rocks; he went closer and touched the canvas thinking that

someone had tampered with it. To his surprise he found the canvas dry and cracking. He

was bewildered and explained that he would have to look into the history of the painting.

Jenny realized that it was her scarf that she had left behind, did it really happen?

SHIRLEY HEADING AUGUST 2012


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BORDERLINE Trevor Rogers Copyright @ 10/12

For several of us this was our first experience of the United States Border with

Mexico. We were excited about the new sights and sounds and nervous about what tasks

lay ahead of us in the next two days. We were crossing into Mexicali for the weekend to

work at a voluntary clinic for physically disadvantaged children.

Organised by a University Medical School, a large number of medical staff and students

had been driven South in University transport, arriving late on a Friday evening.

Accommodated at motels on the U. S. side of the border, it was an easy walking distance to

the buildings where we would be working the next two days. Then we were due back to the

University late Sunday night for classes on Monday morning.

Early Saturday morning we set off to go through the border. The border post had an

imposing appearance with an overhead bridge, below which there were two motorway

entries with manual barriers to halt cars in each direction. On the outer sides were cagedpedestrian, single file walkways. Each of these access ways were separated by guardhouses

with windows like a ticket office. The barriers were wide open with a few guards lounging

around. None of the guards seemed to take much notice of us. They neither asked any

questions nor bothered to check our passports. All the same, we were wary of them and

steered clear, giving the guards a wide berth.

Observing their untidy appearance, we commented to each other on their baggy, ill-

fitting uniforms. With their long drooping moustaches, they looked more like bandits than

protectors of law and order. The less we had to do with such bad looking fellows the better.

Most people were walking through the vehicle roadway, so our specialist technical group of

fifteen keen young men followed along easily with the crowd and went to work. Our sub-

group of volunteers were a group of twelve Americans, one Porto Rican, one Canadian and

one New Zealander. We arrived at our designated building about 8a.m. to find it packed

with people lining the corridors waiting their turn for help. Whole families had come with

each child who needed attention. This, I discovered, was a common phenomena in under

developed countries, which I was later to experience on a number of times. There was

nothing for it but to get stuck in and do as much as we could in the time we had available.

The blessing in the hot climate was the coolness of the building with dark green tiles on

the floors and walls and windows set high in the walls making the rooms rather dark. This

did necessitate turning towards the light occasionally, when working on our technical tasks.

Every now and then, one of our volunteer administrative staff called out, Anyone for

coffee? and all of us shouted back, Yes!!! We sipped at it while we worked, even when it

had gone cold. At some stage during the day; maybe around 2p.m., or so, our admin. staff

member shouted out, Pizza, doughnuts and tacos coming up. We munched them among

the nuts, bolts, screws, splints, braces, leather straps, buckles and wheelchair bits and

pieces we were working with. Eventually, we noticed it had become quieter and those still

waiting were drifting away in order to line up the next day. The Director of our UniversityProgram, who had been assessing the childrens needs, appeared through a door and


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announced that it was after 6oclock; time to knock off. You guys have done enough for

today. Do not forget you have to last all day tomorrow.

It was a weary and hungry lot, who wandered back through the border post to the

motels for a shower and clean up. Once refreshed we were livened up again, but hungry and

thirsty so back over the border to a Mexican restaurant for a slap up dinner. We had a goodnight out, our fatigue had lifted and we were in high spirits as we headed back towards our

motels. As we approached the border post, it was lit up like a Christmas tree.

The vehicle barriers were down and manned by a number of guards. Pedestrians were

being channelled through the caged walkways and stopped to present their documents. My

Canadian friend Gary, suddenly announced he did not have his passport. Where is it? I

asked. In L .A. was the reply. Any other I.D.? was the next question. No, Ive only got

my wallet with money in it. How serious was this going to be? It could be really bad. What

to do was the real question? There was no way around the barrier but we would have to

get Gary through somehow. Our minds scrambled for ideas, mostly hair- brained schemes.Perhaps we could provide cover while Gary crept along below the window? No there

was a door beyond the window and we could not tell how many guards might be in the

guardhouse. Anyway if we were caught with such tricks we would all be in trouble. Gary

decided he could offer some money!! No!!! These fellows are likely to take all he had then

arrest him for bribery. We noticed some people were only showing their passports and not

handing them over to the guards. We had to hatch a plan. It seemed to me our only option

was to be bold and bluff it out with some playacting. Some of our American companions

were very rowdy so we positioned ourselves (three non -Americans) in the middle of the

group as a distraction. We decided that the three of us were to stay as close together as if

we were conjoined triplets.

Gary first; Benny, who was Porto Rican and Spanish speaking, second, then me; (the

New Zealander) next. The idea was to present ourselves together in front of the window

and leer in at the guard as Gary waved his wallet, fumbling with it in pretence of trying to

produce an I.D., while Benny hands over his passport and engages the guard in his most

ebullient Spanish. (Absolutely, no trouble to Benny whatsoever!).

At the same time, I had my head, ear to ear with Bennys, while making a big deal of

handing over my passport and talking over Benny, saying repeatedly, Nuevo Zealandier.

All the while inching along towards the gate, until Gary was past the window, out of sight of

the guard, then we elbowed him along, bundling him towards the gate and escape. One of

the Americans who was aware of what was going on, called out from behind us, Hey, you

guys, stop holding up the works, we want to get home to bed!We were waved on and

passed through the freedom gate. Benny explained to us later that he was profusely

apologizing to the guard that his two New Zealand friends, (he thought involving a Canadian

was too complicated) were a long way from home and couldnt handle the good Mexican

beer!

How disappointing it was, not to have a Mexican border stamp on my passport!!

writing booklet 2012

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