“And Remember, Bring yer Money with You”
I remember in the early days of TV, Saturday afternoon, around lunchtime, we had the pleasure of watching Joe the Gadget Man (Joe Sandow) the moustachio’d spruiker for Nock and Kirby’s.
Joe paraded a mind-blowing array of stuff that seemed to me as a then child, perfectly designed for the kind of tasks that simply never happened in my world. Spilling red wine on a flokati rug ? No red wine. No Flokati rug. Moreover if a (usually) kitchen task was critical to the mysterious inner workings of Mom’s culinary operations, I’m pretty sure that she could have mastered the thing with nothing more complex than a knife or a spoon.
I remember hundreds of variations on apple corers. Apparently this was a major problem of the late 1950s and 1960. There were slicers of every imaginable kind. I suspect that the footage of hapless vegetables being sliced to oblivion was speeded up, because few people in my world repeated brave tales of massive domestic efficiencies wrought by these miracles of plastic and stainless steel manufacture. Or more than likely, the hundreds of hours saved through the utilisation of such culinary wonderment were neatly offset by the time spent in this assemblage for the job and dismantling and CLEANING after the event.
I can well imagine that Joe single-handedly drove the overfilling of kitchen drawers and the nation-wide construction of cupboards. I can’t remember any gardening objects, but I can imagine the odd one or two dads who lusted after various jigs and guides to ensure the straightest cutting of timber in the construction of the cupboards to which we have alluded previously.
These must have been from the ranks of the domesticated family man sort of Dads, amongst which my Dad was denied membership. He was domesticated for some of the week, but the weekend belonged to the Picnic Point Bowling and Social Club.
Dad prepared for rolling the Bakelite bowls by climbing into his creams while Mum prepared lunch. I am certain that this was always some kind of salad with ingredients that had magically eluded Joe’s devices. I remember delicious Grosse Lisse tomatoes, Kraft cheddar cheese, tinned beetroot, grated carrot, maybe some ham, Golden Circle pineapple rings, iceberg lettuce (I’m particularly indifferent to iceberg lettuce still – some 50 years later), cucumber slices (my indifference escalated to actual dislike… until I discovered salad dressing with Balsamic vinegar in my twenties … or maybe I was just unable to maintain the rage against the beasts or the arrival of Lebanese cucumbers and telegraph cuies with less aggressively burp-generating and fart-driving qualities). I cannot face even the idea of apple cucumbers to this very day. But I digress.
Dad polished his bowls shoes, put on his thin blue cotton tie, applied the club badge and dusted off his hat. Preparing for the battle to come. We ate and then he either walked through one of our neighbour’s yards and through the inevitable gate in their back fence e (cutting off about a half a mile of street travel), or in latter days he drove our second-hand 1963 Volkswagen beetle deluxe. I love that, don’t you ? A DELUXE people’s car- meaning that the doors were lined and I think the wheels had trim. Such luxury.
Then Mom and I would settle down to her cup of tea and my orange cordial and watch Midday Joe.
It was a kind of distraction. The hours before the storm.
I had come to understand, if not the cause, definitely the effect of the battle of the bowls. Some hours later, my father would return to the humble abode, worst for the drink, dinner on a red hot plate under alfoil in the oven, desiccated past “dead dingo”, jovial or belligerent but always, like a phial of nitroglycerin likely to explode at the slightest provocation. He habitually slumped and went to sleep in the Dad chair.
Mom and I had a well-honed routine. Dad has been dead for 26 years but we are masters to this day of being small targets. We can fall into a pond and not create a single ripple. We are agreeable, but not to the point of annoyance. Chameleon-like we can make ourselves invisible against any wallpaper, upholstery or carpet pattern.
I should point out that he only ever hit me once, and that was at my Mom’s urging (I was a very naughty boy at times). I must have been about ten. After he whacked me with a not very hard slap on the bum, I called him an old bastard, as kids are wont to do to see what it takes to provoke a melt down in their folks. He just laughed a huge, rolling laugh and walked off. He never hit me again, remembering, I think, with no joy at all, his own father who used to thrash him.
In the mid 1970s he was diagnosed and treated as an insulin-dependent Type II diabetic. He gave up the grog and became the kind of Dad a son could love and respect. But it was late in the day and he died twelve years later from metastatic bone cancer from lung cancer and 40 years of smoking Camel cigarettes.That was in 1985.
Mom has never driven a car (successfully) and I sold his 1963 VW Beetle Deluxe for $200 more than he paid for it 23 years before.
And when Mom went into the nursing home, I emptied her house for sale and I threw out the one Joe the Gadget Man device I am certain made it into our lives… a V-shaped serrated plastic knife for decoratively cutting oranges in halves.
Postscript: after Joe finished his Saturday gadgetry festival, came the Roller Game (recently revived as a mainly women’s sport – burgeoning worldwide in Newtown) and World Championship Wrestling (yeah, right – what world was that, then ?), sadly segueing into horse racing in Black and white.
* Joe Sandow died in 2002, aged 89. There’s a lovely obituary here.
Big M said:
I remember being engrossed in ‘Joe the Gadget man’. as a kid, mainly because there was no other adult in the world as enthusiastic as Joe.He held lettuce spinners, apple corers and jigsaw guides in the same esteem. Each item could potentially revolutionise the Western world, bringing peace and good will to all men, one household at a time.
I’m sorry your dad behaved like an arsehole during your formative years, Emm, but, I think that even the best dads were encouraged to give the kiddies a hiding to set them on the straight and narrow. My dad was the reverse, he seemed to be angry nearly all of the time, yet alcohol brought out a more relaxed jovial dad. I don’t think that anyone’s got it right!
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gerard oosterman said:
My dad’s reversible drill with hammer technology is resting in my shed. It is orange coloured and has a chuck which edges are worn by use. Those round drills have, by and large, now been replaced with hexagonal bits that can’s slip within its hold. He bought it at Knock and Kirby back in the early sixties and replaced its lead plug with one that they use in Europe when they went back in 1975. When he died, I took it back again ‘home’ after the funeral and changed back the plug to yet again to an original one. I have used it a couple of times but find the slipping of drills too much to bear and have bought one battery drill years ago at ,where else- but Aldi’s.? It has all that you could possibly want from a drill including hammer.
I used it to hang brackets from the garage wall to hang my bike from. I don’t often ride the bike, prefer walking with the active H instead. Still, it is nice to see the bike hanging there- so reassuring- that I am still capable of riding it. Life goes on.
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sandshoe said:
Sentimental piece, purest of the pure or should I suggest purée. Speaking of gadgets as we were and, later, in the comments angle grinders. It is really a book. There is enough information and leads in this essay to constitute a coffee table volume…and I think of that because having your visage smiling at me through the festive season not in recall but off the coffee table on the cover of ‘News for Seniors’ is the most peculiar thing.
That it’s a mug shot for The Pig’s Arms makes it really peculiar and why not a lad of the urban Australian working class background you are from thus rising on the cream of it to a height of literary excellence in publishing. Dad’s influence has had it’s day. At the pub.
Tongue in cheek maybe but pleased I am investing in the venture with enthusiasm and proud of you, Therese Trouserzoff. Unmasked. Yes, I’ve already been asked who (on earth implied) is Therese Trouserzoff.
A boy named Sue?
Joe, speaking of Joe, is surely the same who coughed and spluttered his way through a spiel travelling the show circuit selling gadgets in the 50s and/or 60s. I have seen Joe up close. He loved talking to my Scottish father who would hang around for the chat, whose enthusiasm for the style of Joe’s presentation not to mention among other items in our kitchen drawer and cupboard his French Omelette maker, the green bean cutter, the apple corer was as lyrical as his adoration of the speech from Scene 1, Act 5 Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold.
…etc.
The gadget man’s real party trick as he was selling on the show circuit was to shove notes into his shirt so they stuck out of it and sometimes fluttered to the ground and he swooped and picked them up to stuff them back in, talking incessantly. He knew the mesmeric principle of having an audience watching the money and we went (my mum and da and I) to watch this act alone as well as inevitably buy as a reward. The “gadget man” entertained with a massive lust for entertaining and to make the money, sweating over his trade and into his shirt and the money with a passion to be seen to be believed, thoroughly loved.
It isn’t really about Joe the Gadget Man, the essay though the essay in short any more than the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle (Pig’s Arms for short) is managed by a chick of masculine identity or a feller pretending to perhaps be a tranny. Come one and all, roll up, like to the marvellous Joe the Gadget Man, to the pub and get to know Mike Jones who owns the premises and really has the licence to say yay or nay to your work for this is he of whom it is spoken. Therese.
He is a chaming man, the man who writes ‘I cannot face even the idea of apple cucumbers to this very day. But I digress.’
Or coleslaw for a range of likely reasons, but we know this from substantial autobiographical meanderings, essays of finest significance, not coleslaw either.
You speak of love, emmjay even if you did throw out the vintage piece, the V-shaped plastic serrated edged knife for cutting oranges into decorative halves. Sounds improbable (that it cut oranges into decorative halves) but the Gadget Man (of whom we have spoken before so we know him too to have been inspirational) himself delighted in his talented spiel in making everything sound simple however at the same time exclusive to his dominion and improbable. It’s a beautifully evocative essay crammed with information about your experience in Sydney growing up in a working class family in those developing years as I imagine them.
O, I forgot my da’s orange (heavy duty) plastic pineapple slicer designed to make cutting a pineapple a breeze and the skin not the least bother, the slices on your party plate near divinity. I never witnessed Dad use that one.
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helvityni said:
Good piece of writing, Emmjay. You should do this more often…
Loved and also understand your preference to Iceberg lettuce, we all have those childhood likes that we carry to our graves. The Boys were complimentary about Gerard’s breakfast pancakes; very good as they are, they can NEVER be as good as my Mum’s….we were of course always hungry in those days…now we don’t wait for hunger, we just eat…
Dad’s father had thirteen children, some died young, I also never met him, but heard stories that he was a hard man. Dad did not pass it on, he was the gentlest person I know. The disciplining was my Mum’s job; She was firm but fair and smacked all of us without asking who had committed the crime of being naughty. She was a busy woman, no time for lengthy investigations. We learnt never to tell on others..
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gerard oosterman said:
The real winners of a competition of who fared the worst from wars might well have to be those that moved home and hearth. It’s not easy to have been bombed, occupied with V1 and V2 coming down in the next street, queueing up for soup and tearing up tram lines for the coking coal bed to use as fuel.
You then thought to have escaped but ended up in an asbestos lined pretend cottage where you would see the neighbour at cracker night only. Mad brother Frank wrapped in wet bed sheets for therapy in the nightmare of Dr Harry Bailey and Callan Park.
Its been a hell of a ride but we are still here, orphans of this world. (including brother Frank)
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Lehan Ramsay said:
Emm, that was a great piece of writing, thankyou for it. I have no memory of Joe the Gadget Man. But I have always wondered about grinders, having never ever found a reason to have one.
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
Thanks, Lehan. Angle grinders are really good for injuring your hands. Think permanent loss of use of fingers etc. I inherited my Dad’s bench grinder. I’ve used it to sharpen kitchen knives bout twice in 26 years. Fortunately his lathe went to Uncle Dick – who could and did make good use of it. It was a museum piece of industrial machinery, but it had an intuitive way of working and Dad could do complex tasks like screw-cutting. When Uncle Dick passed away, his son / my cousin Richard inherited it (I think).
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Googlehoover said:
Lovely Mike, a puissant remembrance to which I found myself nodding as I read.
There was a lot of anger and unrealised potential in that generation of father’s. Just boys when they went to war, many came home broken. But it was unmanly to admit the fear, the horror, the shear self soiling panic, futility and ultimate stupidity of it. What most wanted was to marry and build a family, put the war behind them. Many drank as a kind of self medication for a range of problems, most of which were founded in that fear and terror of war. The initial euphoria of peace became the reality of adjusting to peacetime life. Realistically peace failed to deliver the new world they’d hoped for. Instead they got the cold war with all its paranoia and mad brinkmanship.
Many just remained angry, and you can write your own reasons.
Wrap all of that in the usual profile of the Aussie male, supposedly self reliant energetic and a good mate who enjoys a smoke and a drink in a self authorising and endorsing environment like a licensed club, and you begin to see a huge dichotomy between the inner Dad and the requirement of maintaining the outer dad.
Just a few thoughts of my own on it. My dad had a short fuse and a long burn.
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
Thank you for your very insightful comment. I agree wholeheartedly. My Dad had a lot of similar men in his cohort. And many were seriously damaged by their experiences of war. I think just as was/is the case with many Vienam vets, the family too, pay the price.
Dad didn’t go to war. He was a toolmaker and worked in a protected industry – making parts of aircraft for the war effort and being a Sunday soldier on the weekend. In some ways this put him at odds with his mates who were returned men (and who had the support of each other and rituals like the RSL and ANZAC Day to bind them together).
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algernon1 said:
I remember all of these, Joe the gadget man and the iconic “and bring your money with you.”, the roller derby and the world championship wrestling.
I can’t recall ever having a Nock and Kirbys gadget in the house though. I do recall my grandmother waiting to hear one of the wrestlers giving a message in her mother tongue, it delighted here I never understood though.
Bit like dads and their sons.
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vivienne29 said:
I remember watching Joe the Gadget man too. Against the trend we managed to never buy anything he was promoting. I did watch the wrestling – I was a huge fan.
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
It’s funny how hard wired things like “Bring yer money with you!” are. Such a malleable young memory – and wasted by filling it up with all kinds of useless guff :-). I was really sucked in to the fundamental unfairness of the baddies on the wresting. And good guys like Larry O’Dea NEVER seemed to get square. Favourite move: hitting each other with folding metal chairs.
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astyages said:
Always wondered how they did that… I learned the art of invisibility too, Therese… very early in life, so I can relate to your ‘small target’ strategy.
I’m always intrigued by useful gadgets, in spite of my incurable technophobia and galloping ludditism…
🙂
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
“Galloping !” Superb, Asty 🙂
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