Good news in troubled times - Corona virus
With a forecast of 20 degrees in Melbourne today, I thought that was a good opportunity to wash a couple of blankets at the Laundromat just up the road from where we're living in Ringwood. No problem, the large machine easily welcomed my blankets and it happily started up after I coughed up $10 for its half hour wash.
To fill in the time, I went a couple of doors up to buy the Herald Sun morning paper with the headline ‘Key airline Virgin on Collapse'. Coming outside a speedy car raced by with a loud ‘clack clack' sound. “Hey – what's that I thought?”. I then noticed a small rectangular shape on the road which turned out to be a mobile phone. The car had run over it and after I opened the phone up, I found it was still ‘alive' but the screen was cracked in the corner. There was no ID in the pouch container except a scribbled number I couldn't read and a grocery shopping list.
I took it home scratching my head what I was going to do with it. After about an hour I heard ‘Tchaikovsky' pleasantly tinkling from somewhere in the kitchen. On further inspection I discovered it was coming from that mobile phone.
“Hello”. “Oh, thank God, I believe you've found my wife's phone'' a relieved voice replied. “Yes – great, how do I get it to you?'' I inquired. “I'll come around and pick it up now if that suits.”
It wasn't long before the husband, an older man like myself, was united again with the phone. Of course, it had heaps of treasured photos on it as well as telephone numbers that were stored nowhere else. His wife had driven off with the phone on the roof of the car which reminded me of the time I drove off with my wallet on the top of my car in Broome. Fortunately, I went back and there it was lying innocently on the ground.
Dad was a gifted storyteller. It was no effort for him to entertain us with a variety of stories, but our favourite one as kids was always the true tale of Blondin. We kept coming back to it over and over again and Dad could really paint the scene with pictures that set our imagination running out of control. Dad had enlisted in the Air force during World War II due no doubt to his fascination with flight. Nothing pleased him more than to take a break from work in his company car, parking at the end of a country airstrip and observing light aircraft. His flight training was in Winnipeg, Canada, which was the coldest city he ever visited. Often, the Australian recruits would attend a movie not caring about its content since the theatres were centrally heated. At this time, Dad visited Niagara Falls and walked through the museum which displayed the stunning feats of those who had either survived or been battered to death in their attempts to go over the falls in a barrel or other devices in which they hoped would survive the plunge. Also prominent in the museum was a section dedicated to Blondin.
Blondin was a French tight-rope walker and acrobat. He was born in 1824 and his real name was Jean Francois Gravelet. He had six months training as an acrobat when he was five years old and then made his first public appearance. “His superior skill and grace as well as the originality of the settings of his acts, made him a popular favourite. He especially owed his celebrity and fortune to his idea of crossing Niagara Falls on a tightrope, 1100 ft long, 160 ft. above the water. This he accomplished, first in 1859, a number of times, always with different theatric variations: blindfold, in a sack, trundling a wheelbarrow, on stilts, carrying a man on his back, sitting down midway while he made and ate an omelet.” (http://www.theatrehistory.com/french/blondin001.html). How Blondin carried that man on his shoulders for the return journey of half a mile still makes me shake my head in astonishment. Dad’s graphic description of the achievement set our minds fretting about placing ourselves in the volunteer’s position. When his story was over and we realized we were in the comfort of our own secure bed, it was enough to lull us off to sleep. Blondin died in London on the 19th February 1897.
With Dad’s stories going around in my mind for years, I was indeed fortunate to see the spectacular sight of Niagara Falls for myself. As I approached the Falls from quite a distance away, the roar was so powerful it was a wonder that anyone could contemplate for a minute taking on that tumultuous cascade. “Sixteen people have intentionally messed with the Falls by going over in ‘barrels’ (two people twice). Five didn’t live to tell their tale. A seven year old boy accidentally went over Niagara Falls wearing only a life jacket and survived.” (http://www.infoniagara.com/d-books-magic.html). The most recent survivor was a middle aged man who wanted to end it all in 2003. He cascaded over the Falls and when he bobbed to the surface alive he was arrested and copped a heavy fine for his trouble, but it was more than compensated by a series of appearances on National television.
It was a weird feeling standing in the very spot my father had been forty years previously looking at exhibits such as the rubber ball he had told us about. Apparently, the unfortunate person had survived the fall but suffocated through lack of oxygen. Also, on display was the first successful barrel of the female schoolteacher who tumbled over the Falls in 1912. I couldn’t help but wonder about her thinking on the subject. “Good morning, students ………….guess what I did on the weekend.”
