Cinema

As a 17-year-old, my mother took me to a big ward full of mental patients at the massive Brisbane public hospital complex. It was a halfway house to the official Goodna Asylum on the road to Ipswich. It felt like something from the previous century. Mum often visited distant relatives and friends who had fallen on hard times and on this occasion, it was the latter: “Cec” by name, he’d had what was then called a nervous breakdown. He’d lost his bearings, shouted a lot and become uncontrollable. He was a little bloke who’d spent his life in the bush as a station hand. After the boss sacked him, his wife, “Bonny” in the argot of the day, ‘couldn’t do a thing with him’. So, they called the cops, and he finished up, drugged to the eyeballs with lithium, in the big dormitory where a doctor would decide his fate. Mum brought me along because I was jackarooing at the time, and she thought I might bring him ‘out of his shell’ with stories of my time at the property where we ran 6000 sheep and 500 cattle. I didn’t exactly jump at the chance but I had a few stories, mostly of me getting bucked off horses or being chased by a bull. But I also had good one of Dave, a fellow jackaroo, who boasted he could pick up a brown snake by the tail and snap its head off the way you crack a stockwhip. But when Neil, our other jackaroo, challenged him to do it with a big black snake that was actually dead, the first twirl around his head went wrong and the snake’s head hit Dave on the neck and stayed there, fangs first. Well, Dave’s antics and squeals were the funniest thing I’d ever seen, and I still laugh about it when I write it; but it actually brought Cec out of his semi-coma for his first chuckle in a month. And he was still smiling when we left. Anyway, he didn’t go to Goodna but we lost touch with him and Bonny and I don’t know how he finished up. But I’m reminded of this by the kerfuffle now exercising the commentariat and the parliamentarians about the government’s decision to halve the mental health visits to psychiatrists or psychologists from 20 to 10, at a time when there aren’t even enough practitioners to meet the new deal. Because here’s the thing: Other distant friends and family have also had mental health problems, seen a psychiatrist…and not one of them has ever been cured. The community’s suicide rate hasn’t fallen. In fact, it was higher before Covid than it was all those years ago when Cec had his breakdown and psychiatrists were rare as hen’s teeth. It wouldn’t matter if the government doubled their number, until we learn more about the brain and the nervous system it’s an exercise in self-delusion and money down the drain. No doubt their hearts are in the right place, but the hard truth is that psychiatrists have neither the knowledge nor the toolkit to cure the afflicted. The brain is still a largely unknown quantity. It’s the Dark Continent before Livingstone. We’re only beginning to explore its geography, let alone the actions wrought by the multi-billion connections between its constituent parts. They still use lithium to turn people into zombies, and electric shocks to fuse their brains, and they sit listening to patients chattering while bravely resisting the memory of that lovely five-iron they hit on the twelfth hole in the Saturday comp. It is treatment, the illusion of ‘cure’, and they charge a fortune for what any competent GP could do just as well. Yet backbenchers are outraged, do-gooders tearful, and after every second ABC program the host says, ‘If anything has caused you distress (or whatever) call Lifeline or Beyond Blue.’ I doubt their ‘counsellors’ are all psychiatrists; but hopefully they’ll at least have a good snake story.

Reading—A beer with Baz The gate clicked shut and Bazza stared down the driveway to Mick’s shed. The roller door was up and five over sized elves dressed in reds and greens were seated on upturned buckets and wooden boxes around the new ride on mower. Bazza grinned…….a break in Santa’s workshop. Bazza screwed his eyes as ‘Jingle Bells’ crackled from a shoddy speaker. Test cricketers silently ba led the heat of the Gabba on an old television to one side. Mick directed Bazza to the fridge at the back of the shed and he squeezed passed a couple of rotund elves to secure a beer. Mick threw him a ludicrously coloured stubby holder from some never to be visited again town. Bazza squeezed into the rickety old canvas director’s chair to join the circle. Cheers for Christmas all round…… but the focus was back on the shiny red mower. Mick cleared his throat. “Top of the range model, fellas…… an Apache 52” Zero Turn Mower. It has an electric start, dual tanks with a 44 litre fuel capacity and a running me of 5.5 hours. It can be switched to four wheel drive for rough terrain and can even mow uphill to thirty five degrees. I thought the model with the air condi oned cabin was a bit over the top, but this one has a refrigerated stubby holder.” There were a couple of low whistles and a few chuckles, as Bazza took in Mick’s modest, flat lawns. The gathering heat had a few of them mopping their brows and Bazza scanned the garage. It resembled a mini Bunnings. A whipper snipper and the dreaded leaf blower, in the corner, had him grimacing. One side wall was taken up with numerous hand saws, a variety of hammers, lots of chisels, screwdrivers, wood planes and other tools. Each tool had its place neatly iden fied by black shadow paint. The bench on the other side was stocked with electric saws, drills and sanders. Some unopened boxes were gathering dust. Bazza took a long sip of his stubby and ran the cool bo le across his forehead. His gaze shi ed longingly, to Mick’s newly completed deck at the back of his house. It was spacious and well shaded. Empty, well padded deck chairs were posi oned to pick up the a ernoon breeze. An intricate tapestry adorned the back wall of the house. In all, an image befi ng a ‘House and Gardens’ magazine. Bazza’s eyes scanned back to the mini Bunnings. “You have done a good job on the back deck, Mick.’ “Nah…….I got a builder in to do that, Bazza. All the tools you can see are for home maintenance and projects.” Mick passed him a simple, par ally made teapot stand. “Yeah……I’m pleased with the deck, Bazza. It will be good for entertaining over the summer.” There were various murmurs of agreement and everyone was now running their stubbies across profusely swea ng foreheads. A few shi ed uncomfortably on the makeshi sea ng. “Ah……Mick……why aren’t we si ng on the deck?” Mick’s eyes widened, he leaned in and raised an eyebrow. “Bazza, Bazza…….Bazza……..it’s tradi on. We always have drinks in the back shed.” Mick straightened and took a long sip. “Anyhow…….next up, I’m going to extend this shed. I’ve got to make room for the new five burner barbeque and put in a sink so we don’t have to use the kitchen. I’m not sure whether to go up or build out. I also reckon it would be good to put in a bed to have a bit of a nap between jobs.” Have a beer with Bazza at john.longhurst59@gmail.com

THREE farms in Tilba district experienced an outbreak of pleuro among their ca le, resul ng in the death of several cows. Strict steps for isola on were taken, with the result that infec on was checked. It is stated that all danger of any further loss by the disease is now over. A SIGHT WORTH SEEING. – Beau ful Xmas Cakes, all shapes and sizes, dressed and undressed, in Mylo ’s windows. Don’t miss one in order to spend a Merry Xmas. AT the age of 23 years, Patrick, son of Mr. and Mrs. James Donnelly, died at his parents residence, Bergalia, on Monday. Deceased had been in a delicate state of health from childhood, and very deep sympathy is expressed for Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly in their sorrow. … A MIRACULOUS escape from a terrible fatality occurred on the Clyde River on Sunday. Mr. Walter Ison, with his li le son and two companions, was in a boat on his way down river, when a charge a dynamite – which he was carrying – exploded, sha ering his right hand. Unaware that the fuse was alight, Ison was searching in his pockets for a match, when the charge exploded. The li le boy received nasty gashes in his face, caused, it is surmised, from the splintered bones of his father’s hands, and despite his injuries the brave li le lad rowed the boat un l he reached help, the other occupants of the cra being in a dazed condi on owing to concussion. Through the kindness of the Captain of the I.S.N. Co’s steamer, who brought the vic m to Bateman’s Bay, and Mr. Anne s conveying him in his motor car the remainder of the journey, Mr. Ison was in the Moruya Hospital within two hours from the me of the accident. Dr. Cutler successfully amputated the injured member. Much sympathy is felt for the vic m, who will now be prevented from following his usual occupa on as a Shire maintenance hand. Extracted from the Moruya Examiner by the Moruya and District Historical Society Inc. h ps:// www.mdhs.org.au [Examiner 8- 8 -1958. – At the age of 75 Walter (Wally) Ison was honored for 50 years of service to the Eurobodalla Shire. Council Staff and Councillors, at a dinner at the Monach Hotel, presented him with a Ranleigh tray, and water jug and glasses. He was referred to as “one of our most valued staff” in the speeches, “despite losing his right hand and half his forearm” in 1922. “He was soon back on the job with a hook on the end of his stump and improvised methods of handling pick, shovel and axe.”