Author Archives: gerard oosterman

Annemarie’s Consummation with a Night on sad stretcher.

16 Tuesday Mar 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Mens

≈ 11 Comments

  

“We’ll do the novena after the dinner”; “we’re all starving”, she said.  “No, not the novena to-night again” a chorus of children protested. “Ja, natuurlijk”, “of course we will”, her dad said sternly in guttural Dutch. All Dutch fathers are stern and ramrod morally straight. A novena par for course it would be, with those large and fatally catholic families. No interruptus of any coitus there. Let the little ones come, and mother will do the endless scrubbing, stove sweating, cooking, shopping and kiddie feedings!  Gutturally challenged fathers are often in easy chairs and smoking Graven A’s.

The novena was popular with large catholic families. It involved something religious with the number nine and praying.  Nothing voodoo though!  In Annemarie’s family it soon became clear just after dinner when instead of the usual thanks-giving prayer; the whole lot sank onto their knees on the floor with crossed hands on the dining chairs in front of them. They were doing this for nine weeks and were now in the second week. I dutifully followed kneeling just behind and beside Annemarie. They were all fingering the rosary beads while praying for a good future, including for ‘own home on own block and own solid Torrens Title’. 

 

 Of course, with the mashed potatoes, carrots and onions and some minced cows, the bedding down of the food while kneeling in pious prayer was not easy and soon a few light-hearted farts were wafting around.  Nothing too serious and parents smiled benevolently and lovingly at their happy off-spring, gathered on knees.  Apparently, the farting was the acceptable price negotiated in return for everyone agreeing to do this nine week family Novena, ‘for a better future in Australia, for our children.’ I suspected the farting would be on regardless of any novenas. Good Dutch families that fart together stay together.

In all that what was going on I was focussed on showing due piety in my posture, eyes turned at a slant and heavenly upwards. But, and as usual, it was in direct contrast to those infernal and intruding carnal thoughts. So close and yet so far. How ironic.  There she was the dreams of my youth. So lovingly on her knees, dress hiked up somewhat, lovely roseate thighs with rosary slipping through agile fingers. Oh, the irony of it all, the temptation so close and yet so far and under such dire and difficult circumstances.

With the novena having come to its last bead, we all got up and I offered to do the washing up, hoping a reciprocate move from my beloved. “No, it’s Elizabeth turn”, she quickly retorted. Roderick is waiting!   So much for love reciprocating.  Mother stepped in though, “no, you do it tonight”, she said sharply. With this latest set-back I decided that Mr ‘normal nose Roderick’ was more on her mind.  No doubt waiting for her around the corner, practising his ramrod straight morals as I was bloody well helping her do the washing up, even dried the dishes allowing the towel at times to stray against her leg. That’s the best my thousand kilometre scooter trip was capable of achieving.  Bitter rewards and pathos at its best that I would now be sleeping in her bed; perhaps with her scent on pillow case, providing her mother hadn’t changed the sheets or pillow case. Was it any better than sleeping in my lonely tent?    Is this what I had been so good for?

 

The kids were around the table playing Monopoly, squabbling over who had the most money and who was cheating, the novena wearing thin already and materialism rearing its head.  “Don’t be late”, her mother said. I could smell a kind of cinnamon odour and a rush of Annemarie’s frock bolting to the door. Insult to injury. I certainly know when to beat a retreat and after a ‘good night’ I crept to her bedroom but at least in her bed.  Beggars can’t be chosers!  No doubt, her dad would follow soon.

 He did, “Hey Gerard, would you mind sleeping on the stretcher”, “I have a sore back and you are so much younger?”

I said goodbye next morning never to see lovely Annemarie again.

Sex, Annemarie and a sad stretcher.

05 Friday Mar 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 11 Comments

March 5, 2010 by gerard oosterman

the lovely Annemarie 

Story so far: Having survived a near goring by ferocious cows on my way to Annemarie through the ‘Snowy’, I have arrived at the front door.

Annemarie, here I come! 

  After a soft knock at Annemarie’s parents address, the door  opened. It was her mother who was beaming invitingly. “Ah, Gerard, come in, come in. Gee, you look red. The whole family came to the door. They had eight children and most of them girls. Dutch families of that time were huge. Indeed, a family with 21 children had arrived in 1955 and were featured, all in a row, on most newspapers front pages. I think they were The Stalenberghs and settled in ‘own home’ near Blacktown. The redness was mainly on my nose which also had developed nasty sun- blisters, not looking too appetizing. A four day trip in January on a motor scooter had left my face too exposed.  I was so hot and my suit was dark.

sun blisterd proboscis 

I entered with my suitcase but sans the object of my trip anywhere in sight. “Where is Annemarie, I mustered bravely but also casually”? “Oh, she’ll be here soon, she is just with a friend”. “She‘ll be helping me cook dinner soon”, her mother added rather quickly. “Why don’t you take a douche, here is a towel”? “You’ll be sleeping in Annemarie’s room and she’ll sleep with me.” With Annemarie not being there at my arrival and out with a friend, it did not sound too promising. Still, sleeping in her room was at least something. Percolating in a suit carrying a carton suitcase with bulbous and blistered nose, beggars can’t be choosers. Her absence was ominous though. Sleeping in her room was also not as it first seemed. I knew, that she would not be anywhere in bed with me. Of course not. Who do you take the Dutch for, a libidinous race of herring eating fornicators? “My husband will sleep on the stretcher bed next to Annemarie’s bed.” The ever thoughtful wife added.

My head started spinning and I needed to take up the offer of a refreshing shower. The sleeping arrangements needed some clarity which I could not achieve while still wearing and steaming in my Reuben’s S. suit. I undressed in the shower and tried not to complicate things with having Annemarie’s bed in mind. My proboscis was throbbing, nothing else. With a clean body and, considering the circumstances, a clean mind as well, I got dressed. I carefully packed my suit back in its carton environs together with dirty clothes and spark plug and spanner. My ‘suit wearing’ for impressing Annemarie had been a fiasco, she wasn’t even there!

I put on a Pelaco shirt and shorts; thongs on feet, clearly refreshed and ready for whatever would eventuate, including hopefully, a good old fashioned Dutch fare that Annemarie and mum would cook up. It smelt delicious, and not seeming too keen on getting a glimpse if Annemarie had arrived back yet and was lending a hand in the kitchen, I engaged with the other daughters and single son. They all were remarkably uninterested and preferred to talk to each other. Father of Annemarie had just come home and was in his special chair, smoking Graven A as well. What a coincidence!  At least we had that in common as well as sharing the same room for to-night. Suddenly, I heard the lovely pitched voice with a timbre that I recognized from that time on board with her special table tennis skills. ” Oh Annemarie”, I shouted from the lounge room. “Oh, hello Gerard”. “Hoe gaat het?” How are you going?   It did not sound as enthusiastic as I had imagined or fantasised. During that episode in the Snowy Mountains with those ferocious cows, I had prepared myself to gild the (Annemarie’s) Lilly somewhat with a heroic survival tale that I had practised during the last 2 nights in my single person tent.

love on a stretcher 

I walked into the kitchen and immediately understood the reason for her rather cool welcoming engagement from the kitchen. There was a bloke there. Can you believe it? Cool as Fanta and with a normal nose. “This is Roderick, Roderick this is Gerard from the boat”, “he has a Lambretta”, she cooed. What a blow, all those cows ready to gore me, my burnt facial features and rotten nights wrestling to keep pure for Annemarie and now all hope collapsing. Roderick kept staring at my nose.  What I had left now was a night with her father and her bed. Small solace!  No wonder the mother was cooking up a big meal. She knew full well what was going on and I consoled myself with the idea that she preferred me for her daughter. An apprentice spectacle maker was a bit better than a mere factory labourer which ‘he’ turned out to be. “He has no future”, she confided, after he, the ‘Fanta boyfriend’ had left just before dinner. I did not have it in me to enlighten her to the fact that I had been a factory labourer until recently! Why not thrive a bit on someone’s better opinion?

The dinner was almost prepared and I watched as Annemarie was bashing the spuds with the potato masher, wriggling her lithe torso so knowingly and so maddingly delightful. Those table tennis tournaments sure had paid off, made her a fast mover. She wore a dress that was sweeping and rotating around her legs in sympathy to the spuds being pulverised.

ps: Will be continued with a consumation.

Cows and Annemarie

23 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Other Side of the Carpark, Travels

≈ 33 Comments

Battered old brown leather suitcase against a white background

When I was told that ‘Dutchies’ were popular with the girls in Melbourne, I packed a small suitcase, kick-started the Lambretta and headed south. At age 17 the discovery of Ma paw and her five daughters some years before had grown a bit wearisome and needed reviving. The change from left to right hand did not quite satisfy the yearning. I longed for a real girl friend and tales of conquests from work mates at the factory of Spectacle Makers in Clarence Street  only egged me on to at least give Melbourne a go.

I packed a suit, recently bought from Reuben’s Scarf. The two suits for the price of one was the deciding factor. The coats were a bit big and would have looked better on a Paganini just before his burial where some claim he could be heard to play his final violin concert even underground afterwards. In those days, the wearing of a suit was somewhat superfluous but with the fragile state of my confidence, I thought it would stand me in good stead with those Melbournian girls in need of a Dutchman.

My father was most circumspect of this journey by a 150cc scooter and held grave fears. Never the less, at departure I shook hands and kissed my mother. Strange, thinking back of that shaking hands business. Back in 1958 travelling to Melbourne had been undertaken before. My dad made me feel as if I was Mawson on discovery of another polar region.

The suitcase had survived the Trans Atlantic and Indian Ocean trip a  couple of years before and even though battered, it did have locks on the lid with a key that fitted. It was made of leather looking carton and also had a handy strap with a buckle just to make sure it would not open un-expectantly. The rest of the suitcase included fresh singlets, shirts with ties and some Lambretta spares, contact points, spark plug and spanner, underpants. I still had the address of a Dutch family and a lovely daughter named ‘Annemarie’ whom I had met on the trip over a year before. The table tennis tournaments on board of The Johan Van OldenBarnevelt were made more interesting by the enthusiastic playing of Annemarie, she was fast and while bending over the tennis table I noticed her teen cleavage. I was lost already then!

‘Don’t forget the catechism Gerardus Antonius,’ mother urged me with some concern of my deeply soiled soul, no doubt worried about those nocturnal emissions on singlets. “Have you got your maps handy”, mum asked kindly? Yes, mum.” What about the spare spark plug?” ‘Yes dad.’ A final handshake and a kiss to mum, I kick-started the scooter and rode away like something out of ‘High Noon’. I looked in the mirror with mum still waving but dad had gone.

The beginning of the trip went past areas that I had been before, Bankstown, Liverpool and Ingleburn. Then new territory opened up and from then on it became the adventure that lasted about three weeks. Somewhere past Gundagai and Wagga Wagga I turned left and this is where the adventure became a bit more serious. Most of the roads became gravel or dirt tracks and through steeply mountainous terrain. After about travelling a hundred kilometres or so, a huge mob of cows blocked my way. I stopped and tried to look and behave as nonchalantly as possible. I was terrified they would trample all over me and my scooter and suitcase. ‘A rampaging herd of cattle trampled a lone traveller with scooter.’ ‘My dad would read in the afternoon edition of the Mirror, with an arrow pointing to my body and dead scooter.’

They were in their hundreds and did not want to budge. Their bovine manner got to me and I thought it best to pretend to be one of them. I started mooing and instantly became one of them, disguised my scooter with branches and just waited while smoking my Graven A’s, hoping the cows would understand!.

It seemed hours but the hunger for food must have got to the cattle. A couple started sauntering past me, bellowing, and signalling perhaps for the others to follow. Then, as on cue, they all started and with incredible agility they all ran past me. The dust was choking me but I had escaped the hooves and horns of the mob of cattle.

My expected arrival at Melbourne did involve a stop prior to knocking on the door of Annemarie’s parents place and behind an old eucalypt, changed into my Ruben’s Scarf suit and did a general spruce-up!

Annemarie, here I come!

Growing Pains

12 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, Poets Corner, The Public Bar

≈ 13 Comments

factory workers

The owner of the second factory and wooden leg had a curious way of dealing with others. His mouth did not just contain a fag with brown spittle leaking, but mouth was also set permanently at twenty past eight o’clock and he would spend the day creaking around the factory floor with gammy leg, sneering and leering at the cavorting going on. At times he would get into his strides and gun for me. He would grab my hair and pull my head towards the floor. ‘You forgot this bit here’ he would say. Look at it, you bastard, ‘here’ and he would spit a lifetime of smoking induced load of phlegm onto the floor.  Those unfortunate experiences were tolerated when considering that the pay off, at least, was not having to join in any buggering in front of the capstan lathe machine.

Cadets

Again, at some time later and another job, as an apprentice spectacle maker in Clarence Street, Sydney, the initiation for the young and upcoming workforce was for the adults to get Ultra marine blue or Cobalt blue dye in powder form and after taking the pants down of the uninitiated, rub this powdered dye around the genitals of the hapless victim.  This dye was so strong it would stain legs, genitals and clothes for weeks. Later on when I found out that this was widespread and tolerated and accepted as an almost essential part of ‘growing up’, I knew that there was a serious and serial kind of bullying going on. Of course, at that time I was also astonished to observe young kids going to schools in quasi army uniforms and with mock rifles slung over their tiny shoulders. Was there a war still? Girls, in the middle of hot summers with black skirts, black tops, black hats, black stockings and even black gloves. Was there some connection between all that and bullying?

Cobalt blue

My younger brothers and single sister in the meantime were enrolled at different schools. Some at the primary school locally, and two brothers to a catholic high school, called ‘De La Salle’ College. It was not long before our parents found out that the punishment of whacking her children with a ruler or cane was not all that rare, so off the ‘chief of staff’, (mother) went to confront the Head ‘Brother” of this ‘benevolent’ College wanting to stop the bullying by physical violence of her children. The practise that was commonly used would be the voluntary holding up of the palm of hands, whereby the kindly ‘brother’ would sweep down at full throttle and hit the upturned palm with the ruler. Another much liked version was the hitting of hands with the knuckles up. This was popular because it inflicted so much more pain and was even more effective in installing subservience and non questioning education in pupils.

Another perplexing insight in this new country was given that for children to move up to the next level of education, this did not depend on having passed examinations on subjects, but rather on how much someone had grown up? The younger ones did not have the advantage that Frank and I had of having had a few years of English back in Holland, so it was perhaps much harder those first couple of years for the younger brothers and sister to stay in front. When it was suggested that John should perhaps spend another year at the same level, the answer was that John was so tall he could not possibly spend another year in the same class.

L’indolente and Masterpieces from Paris.

07 Sunday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic

≈ 16 Comments

L'indolente

We visited the National Gallery against all advice not to attempt it during week-end. We arrived about 11.30 and the queue overhead the roadway did not look promising. We clambered up some stairs amongst the rubble of a large extension, plywood panelling on both sides with scaffolding. Upstairs and outside under a tent-like galley we joined a queue. There was some queue confusion when it became clear you first had to get tickets. We joined a new one, bought our tickets and returned to the original file. Towards the entrance the line of keen art appreciators was compressed into a zig-zag line-up, giving hope and revival of spirits to all and sundry.

It was moving along   nicely and we were finely ticketed inside and moved into room NR 1.  It was well worth it and the crowd was filing pensively past each and every painting.

George Seurat’s three little paintings of his frontal nude girlfriend in room NR 2 were outstanding . I took note that she appeared underage but it must have past the classification board at that time.

In room NR 3 was a large painting by Gustave Geffroy of a man in front of a large bookcase. I did not realise that penguins were already available then. Please also notice the Dutch tulips with the plasma telly just above them.

Cezanne certainly loved his onions with beautifully coloured plates of fruit as well. A beautiful monochrome coloured painting by Edouard Vuillard was outstanding.

Gustave Geffroy

A crackerjack painting of a fat cracking portrayal of a mouthwatering and beautiful sprawled on bed nude was Pierre Bonnards ” woman dozing on a bed” with the very suitable French title L’indolente, was in my opinion the most outstanding of the lot.

This is a must see exhibitions. Come on piglets. Go and see it, even on a Saturday.

Underage child care in the 60’s

05 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 20 Comments

The last bastion in the late sixties for males to break down was the right to baby-sit. Women were in the throng of burning bras and going girdle less, stockings with seams were passé and Germaine Greer had announced ‘Bras are a ludicrous invention’. So, while women burned bras because they were seen as accoutrements of torture, men burned their draft cards avoiding real torture and felt liberated until they tried to baby-sit in Inner West of Sydney.

As it was, I turned up one evening and with the household all dressed to go and dine somewhere or see Zorba the Greek, I noticed a distinct cooling towards me. They made a discreet phone call and decided it would be safe for a man to be allowed to baby sit, just this time.  ? Of course, many of the parents that knew each other through social events knew each other as couples or, in the case of play groups, were mainly always women. For a man to be on its own, solo, and at baby-sitting in the evening was not that far advanced in acceptance yet. There was a meeting and the majority approved ‘male baby-sitting’. I don’t know what the objections or criteria were for being suspicious of males doing baby-sitting. Curiously enough, the mother that was surprised and taken aback somewhat when I presented myself to baby-sit, thought nothing of taking her clothes off for a life drawing session. Were males going to do evil things or was the reluctance because of lack of skills? It was not that much of a challenge though and much depended on what sort of facilities the parents had provided. Real coffee instead of the instant variety was preferred. Sometimes, there was a good book or a television program. Sometimes, especially if it was after midnight (double points) you would just go to sleep on a couch if available. Never in their marital bed of course!

Most times, babies would either sleep or cry. If they cried you generally gave them the option of a milk bottle or a dummy. With some families there were directions on procedures, and I remember one cot having a type of fly screen lid fitted on top. It was hinged and had a locking device which was difficult to open; it had a trick to it. I ended phoning the secretary. Did they think their baby was going to get stolen? I only had one time that my baby soothing skills were inadequate. Mind you, the babies (twins) were known as ‘the horrible twins’. Apparently, they would scream and could not be bend in order to change their nappies. It was my turn to baby-sit for these twins and as soon as I walked near them they broke out in a howl and in tandem. The nappy stench made clear I had to change them, but even another step towards their cot resulted in a renewal of their blaring sirens. It would only abate when stepping back. I kept stepping back and phoned the secretary again, she came around and changed the nappies. By 1972 most males had broken the barrier and were fully accepted for babysitting.

Mystery paring of Pears and a Huge day for Milo

31 Sunday Jan 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 6 Comments

Its a miracle, its a miracle.

Miracle Flowering with tears from above

Pear trees are flowering here and I haven’t even been good. Finally a reward for reckless living and the devil take the hindmost.

Milo also had a huge day. A walk through Bowral and a lady across the road shouting ‘Milo, Milo, is that you Milo? Milo is starting to make an impact on Bowral, getting recognition and being showered with attention… Here he is, trying to flush out the naughty birds.

Milo in full flight

 

He has calmed down just resting on his laurels.

Write a good Book, and live forever

29 Friday Jan 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 13 Comments

Author JD Salinger dies

By North America correspondent Kim Landers for AM

Black and white photo of author JD Salinger

Death announced: JD Salinger had been a recluse since 1953 (Supplied)

Reclusive author JD Salinger, who wrote the American literary classic The Catcher In The Rye, has died aged 91.

In a statement, the author’s son said Salinger died of natural causes at his home in the US state of New Hampshire.

Salinger had lived in self-imposed isolation in the small town of Cornish since 1953, had not published anything since 1965 and had not been interviewed since 1980.

Catcher In The Rye, with its teenage protagonist Holden Caufield, was published in 1951 and still sells more than 200,000 copies a year.

The work has been translated into the world’s major languages and sold more than 65 million copies.

Salinger’s novel captivated teenagers all over the world with its themes of alienation, innocence and fantasy, and its author is acknowledged as one of the greatest 20th century American novelists.

“In terms of him being read and being part of people’s lives and recollection of a certain phase of their life, I don’t know who tops him,” said Maura Spiegel, an associate professor of English and comparative literature at Columbia University.

She says Holden Caulfield became one of American literature’s most famous anti-heroes.

“I feel that his voice seems to resonate with readers of a certain age in particular. The voice just goes into them,” she said.

“They know that voice is somewhere in them, or it becomes part of them.

“In any case, it’s incredibly intimate. His unhappiness is of a certain variety that is completely familiar to people of a certain age.”

Besides Catcher, Salinger published only a few books and collections of short stories in his literary career, including 9 Stories, Franny And Zooey, Raise High The Roofbeam Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction.

Neighbours in Cornish rarely saw him and he never returned phone calls or letters from readers or admirers.

Only rumours, infrequent sightings, lawsuits and rare, brief interviews brought him to public attention.

As such, Salinger would have been a disappointment to his most famous creation.

“What really knocks me out,” Caulfield said in The Catcher In The Rye, “is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.”

Jerome David Salinger was born in Manhattan, New York, in 1919.

As a teenager he began writing short stories, but it was Catcher In The Rye that sealed his reputation.

Early reviews delivered both praise and condemnation.

The New York Times described it as “an unusually brilliant first novel”, but the Christian Science Monitor said the main character – Holden Caulfield – was “preposterous, profane and pathetic beyond belief”.

Penelope Blows You Away

26 Tuesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic

≈ 32 Comments

 

 

 

By Helvi Oosterman

Whilst you were all waving your flags and having your barbeques, I was running into the Norton Street Cinema in Leichhardt. It was a humid Sydney day, but I did not care: it was my second last chance to see Almovodar’s Broken Embraces; it was going to start at twelve midday, and I was not going to miss it, I was going to run for it.

Most movie lovers were blown away by Pedro’s previous master piece: Hable con ella, ‘Talk to her’, and after seeing something so sublime, I was worried about his latest offering. David Stratton on Movie Show gave him four stars for this one, and explained that even lesser films by Almovodar are heads above the rest.

I wasn’t disappointed. Almovodar is something else, he’s creative, he’s funny and, he’s over-the –top, but it all works. His talent brings to mind another eccentric and brilliant movie maker who also was gay, the German Rainer Fassbinder. Fassbinder had, as his  muse, the beautiful Hanna Schygalla; Almovodar’s is the equally stunning Penelope Cruz. Under his guidance Penelope shines; to watch her walk up the stairs in her red peep toe high heeled shoes and wearing a red suit is a scene to remember.

Google the critics if you want to know more about the film, but please go and see it, it’s definitely worth it.

Number One Nickname

24 Sunday Jan 2010

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 20 Comments

The White Death
Simo Häyhä

Simo Hayha-S585X360-11707-1

Häyhä, a native of Finland served one year in the Finnish military and then became a farmer. But when the Soviet Union invaded his country, he grabbed the standard issued rifle he’d received, some white clothes, and a couple cans of food and then proceeded out into six feet of snow at -30°C (about -20°F). For a period of over a hundred days he sniped 505 Russians and had over 200 SMG kills. The Russians tried several times to kill him by scouting the area entirely, developing a counter-sniping team trained to target him, and by napalming the vicinity he was in. None of those stopped Hayha, and he became known to the Russians as “The White Death.” He was finally stopped when he was hit in the head with an exploding bullet. A week later he woke from a coma on the day the war ended and lived until the age of 96.