Caravanning with Wep – 1938 Jindabyne; Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River

Grimm Tale of Man IN Snowy River

By L. W. LOWER

JINDABYNE, Monday.

I, myself, personally, alone, and unaided, have crossed the Snowy River on foot in my downy underpants.

This, so far as I know, has never been done before.

As for me, it will not be done again within living memory.

Asked by an interested bystander why I did this, I told him in my simple, forthright way that I wanted to see what was on the other side.

This seemed pretty weird to him.

Halfway across I became bunkered in the rapids, but the indomitable Lower spirit triumphed, and nature took a dirty slap to the face.

Innumerable turkeys roam around our caravan.

I missed eight with various-sized rocks, and had just drawn a fine sight on the ninth, with every chance of bringing him down, when a man in dirty khaki trousers came and said: “Waddger thinkyer trianterdo?”

It seems that they were his turkeys.

“I was just teaching your turkeys how to duck,” I replied.

I thought that was rather bright, considering. He didn’t.

Un-palette-able!

My artist companion, Wep, is becoming more tiring every hour.

Today he was squinting at a little church built on the top of a bare rock-strewn hill.

He walked me up and down for miles saying, “It looks better from here, don’t you think. Do you think I’d get the light better from over there?”

I said that it would probably look swell from the verandah of Straw Weston’s pub.

He became temperamental about it, and said I had no eye for beauty, no sense of balance and proportion, and no soul.

I got into my huff and walked off.

I beat him to the hotel by only four minutes.

Caravanning with Wep – Jindabyne 1938; Quavering Made Them Crotchety

Quavering Made Them Crotchety

By L. W. LOWER

JINDABYNE, Sunday.

Pity you weren’t at the dance last night.

All the girls in this town have been mooning around with cast-iron hair-wavers all over them for days and days.

I sang.

The policeman who put me out told me that he was a great lover of music, but there were a lot of narrow-minded people in the town who had no ear for music.

One of our main storekeepers has been fined 28 shillings for fishing for trout out of season.

He didn’t catch any trout, either.

Ain’t he lucky?

If at any time the Government thinks of dredging the river up around these parts, they may come across a safety razor.

That will be mine.

Cows, But No Milkmen

I have now the perfect excuse for not shaving.

When I think of the hot towels, bay rum, and cold cream and talcum powder shaves I had before I went bush, I blush.

That dance I mentioned was in aid of the Bush Nurses’ Association.

What I need mostly now is a bush nurse.

Almost any kind of nurse will do, but I think a bush nurse would be more appropriate.

Little did I know when I left town that I would wake one morning frozen to death and entirely surrounded by munching cows.

“Will you go for the milk?”

“Certainly. Where do I go?”

“See that hill over there, well you keep that on your right shoulder till you come to a creek. You go across there and take to the left track past the bull paddock.”

“Pardon, but do you really think we need any milk? They tell me that the stuff is full of tubercular germs and things. I think we’d be safer without milk.”

Not Much Remains …

There will come a day, I suppose when I’ll just have to go for the milk.

When black-trackers find my remains, people will say, “Poor Lennie. Cut off in the bloom of youth. A winsome lad. How we all loved him.”

Make my wreath of Iceland poppies, freesias, and snowdrops.

Wep is lying on his back, covered with blankets and inertia.

He has gathered sufficient strength to tell me to make the fire and put the chops on.

I wish I had a shilling.

Any of you lads who contemplate having a hot rum about now, please think of me, and breathe in a southerly direction.