Saw the sweetest little girl this morning.

I'm guessing she was maybe approaching the enlightened age of five and, judging by her frilly outfit, she was a party bound, albeit an early one because it was only about nine of the clock.

She looked an absolute picture but her footware was what really caught my eye;   she was wearing a pair of miniature cowboy boots.

I couldn't resist telling her Daddy that she reminded me of an old pal who once frequented the Ross River Hotel in North Queensland.  A genuine cattlemans watering hole where, Henry, the long suffering owner was often subjected to the dry humour of his clientele.

Sweet little girls Daddy expressed some surprise at my comment so I felt compelled to explain that her cowboy boots reminded me of how old Buck would sometimes prefer to ride his nag through the public bar rather than ride around the pub to get to the back paddock where the other drinkers horses were lodged.

Now, at the time, Buck was sort of 'walking out' with Helen the bar maid and she was of the habit of handing him a tall cool glass as he rode or walked through.  

Henry wasn't too pleased with this liaison but Buck, just like the other ringers, was a big spender so he wasn't about to break that particular rice bowl even if it meant him or his swamper, manning a shovel and broom from time to time.

The Daddy still demonstrated a look of bewildment (as one probably should) so I continued to explain that:

One day Buck, wearing a brand new pair of fancy cowboy boots, walked in and breasted the bar, all the while ensuring his levi's were not hanging so low as to cover his fancy footwear.

Henry was chatting to a couple of regular salesmen at the other end of the bar when he saw Buck swagger in...spurs ajingling and heels a scuffling.

Seizing the opportunity to show off a little for the benefit of the salesmen, Henry called out "Hey Buck, where's your horse?"

Buck placed his empty glass back for a refill and casually wiped the foam from his upper lip.

Tilting his hat further onto his bald spot he axplained in a tone usually reserved for an explanation to a simpleton,

"Henry old feller, I had to sell me horse so I could afford to buy me boots".

Daddy laughed good naturedlyy and told me that Sweet Little Girls boots had once belonged to him when he was little, a gift from an uncle in Dallas.   His Mom had put them up when he'd grown out of them and subsequently, they'd been reserected for her.   He told me she only takes them off when it's bath time...and they sneak them off after she falls asleep at night.

I said to myself as I went on my way that it would be a grand idea if the boots were in time, past down to the sweet little girl's own babe.

Strange how simple things like a well worn but worn well pair of kids cowboy boots can give me a feeling that all's well in my world....

...and I also think that Henry should have written a book...maybe calling it:

"******* Ringers I have met"..

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By virtue of that durned International Date line that reposes east of here (and west of there) out in the Pacific, we are a day different from ya'll so I'm a tad early in offering my best wishes for thanksgiving.   The sad bit is, today's the anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy.   I'm not going anywhere near the controversy raised by the findings that one only marksman was involved...(says he as he goes near it) and I won't wish that it didn't happen because we all know that we don't get fat on what we wish for.   What I will state is:   I hope he's resting in peace and those responsible are rotting elsewhere.

I'm signing this off with a smart Hand Salute to a wonderful man...(Well, I think so anyhoos).

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It was only today that I was telling a friend about my child hood partner, Swervin' Mervyn, and how he and I inadvertantly expended some one hundred rounds or so of .22 ammo into the contents of a box of rubbish that we'd liberated from his Daddy's shed.  

Well to be honest, there was nothing inadvert associated with the expenditure of the ammo, but if we'd known then the value of the contents of the box, mayhaps these Edison Music Machine Cylinders would be now sitting on some collecters shelf, rather than laying, shattered, on our old rifle shooting gallery, up in the Darling Ranges north of the City of Perth in the state of our birth.

So Mr Mick, what's the point?  

Well, driving home this afternoon from my friendly 7/11 (also known as the Murrumba Downs Quicky Mart) I spied ahead of me, pointing in the direction I was coming from, three motor vehicles stopped dead ,while standing on each side of the track were a bunch of school age boys and girls and two of 'em were pretending to be holding a rope across the thouroughfare.   As I closed on the scene of this 'Hold Up' I heard the grumpy old man driver of the nearest vehicle abusing the pants off'n the offenders.  God will, I think, forgive me for my actions (after all was said and done someone had to get the road clear).   I stepped from my Japanese Buzz Box, walked up to the pretend rope while demonstration my best 'Duke' swagger, and, using my pretend KBar, I pretended to chop it into short pieces which I handed to the nearest kid.

When all concerned realised how stupid I looked (imagine, a short arse with a pronounced limp aping the 'Duke')  the  tension soon dissipated and with tootin' of horns and much laughter  from both parties, we all went our own way home to chores, dinner, and no doubt, homework.

So, if there're morals here p'raps one of them is...dumbass kids should use paper targets and two,...todays kids should be kept at home where they can't have a tad of harmless fun after school....and they surely should be home before the Flying Foxes catchem.

There we go, to each his own..(the little boogers...Swervin' Mervyn and I would never have thought of that one).

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I can vouch for the fact that Walter Mitty really still lives.   As long as man has an imagination, there will always be someone who needs to be someone else.   Consider young soldiers of my acquantance who regularly stepped out in uniform with the top button of their jackets nonchalantly left undone....Just like members of the RAF Bomber Command did.   No harm in that of course, unless offenders of a strict dress regulation were aprehended by Gentleman Rankers in white belts.

I once witnessed and old veteran boxing the ears of a young stud who foolishly swanked into a bar while wearing a Returned from Active Service Badge.   The dumpkoff was only slightly older than I, and clearly too young to rate such a decoration.   Foolish of him but what injury did he cause anyone?   Other than the physical injury he suffered in the hands of the old guy, he injured nobody.

I reckon it would be safe to bet London to a Housebrick that there were many other 'Walter Mittys' skating around in the months after the Second Great Hate, and again when our troops began returning from Korea when our commitments there ended in 1956.

For some reason, the Walter Mittys again emerged, and in greater strength, while Vietnam was still fresh in the public's eye.   Wannabees, as they are now known are everywhere Down Under and just like our wombats, they manage to congregate on particular days of reverence...ANZAC Day for example, being our version of Veterans Day, and if that wasn't sufficient airing of their 'purchased' rather than 'issued' medals, out of the woodwork (or from under their particular rock) they reappear on Rememberance Day.   Quite often being officially involved in the ceremony of wreath laying....They are often very genuine appearing, even to wearing uniforms.

One particular idiosyncrasy of these latter day Walter Mittys is:   They all seem to have served on secret missions; and they were mostly Special Forces.

When approached the reply seems always to be "I was sworn to secrecy so my lips are sealed".   (I can think of at least one way to unseal 'em, Ace).

Appearing in court in town today are twin brothers, aged 61 years, who paraded last ANZAC Day and marched with Special Forces Veterans from Vietnam and the Middle East.   Photographs taken that day show them decked out in home made uniforms and wearing racks on racks of ribands that would make General Patten look like a Day One, Week One Rooky.

Their offences?   Stupidity, in my opinion, but in the eyes of the law, they may do some serious time in our local Hotel Grey Wall.

The irony of this debacle is:   Although they were of age to be conscripted for service in Vietnam, they elected to enlist in the Citizens Military Forces, thereby becoming safe.   Wanna guess who sought discharge as soon as our government pulled our guys out?  

So how will the publicity generated by the twins court appearances and their subsequent punishment affect modern day Walter Mittys or if you like, Wannabees?

I'm going to bet my shirt on that they'll be back in force when the dust settles.  

London to a Housebrick.

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So, at last, he's gone.

Bin Ladin is now shark droppings, or so we're told.   I wish it could have happened on President G W Bush's watch though.

But if it's true, dear reader, look upon his demise as not the 'beginning of the end' but as only 'the end of the beginning'.

We should all remember that the price of peace is eternal vigilance.

May God bless us all, and keep our troops safe.

Tags: He's gone

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