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‘She’s on again - the annual campin’ trip regatta, and we’ve got ourselves together for our plans to Wonnangatta. The high country; you can’t beat it for the peace and quiet unless of course some plans get changed that nearly cause a riot. Flamin’ ‘Dangles’ has to go and add another to the crew. It’s his old Uncle Arthur who insists on coming too. Now we don’t know this Uncle Arthur, ‘but he’s ‘gotta’ pull his weight. “Oh he will” said ‘Dangles’, before he mentions - he’s nearly eighty-eight. Well ‘Luber’ struck the bar and spilt his grog upon the floor. Gordon took a swing at ‘Dangles’ and then he took two more. I tried to calm the angry pair from sending ‘Dangles’ to his grave, but neither now was in the mood for wanting to behave. “A man of eighty-eight! You bloody dumb and stupid fool” - “Yeah ya’ great Galah ‘Dangles’, we struggle up there as a rule.” Then ‘Dangles’ gained his senses and recovered from his scare. “Uncle Arthur’s bloody fit; yeah, he’s fitter than you pair.” “We’ll see of that” ‘Luber’ sneered and made a grab for ‘Dangles’ arm. “Take us to this ‘superman’ so we can see his youthful charm” - Well what a shock us trio got when Uncle Arthur showed his face. He looked no more than forty - a picture of the human race. “Well come on chaps lets hit the road” old Uncle Arthur said. “I’ve got all me gear out in the hall an’ me tucker and me bed.” ‘Dangles’ grinned and looked at us - “Hey stop chaffin’ at the bit. We ain’t goin’ ‘til tomorrow so you’ll have to learn to sit.” “I can’t sit around and watch the world go slipping by. Git’ yer gear and let’s clear out” old Uncle Arthur heaved a sigh. He’s got us by the throat he has, this seeming ageless bloke who’s so full of energy, when he should be laying down to ‘croak’. So off we go ‘round midday, and reach Licola around four, cross the Wellington a couple of times, then climbed more and more. Drove on the Howitt High Plains before the long winding descend through a creek and muddy bog holes, that seem to be on every bend. Uncle Arthur’s out and winching like a man who is possessed. We plead with to him slow down before he has a cardiac arrest. And when driving into Wonnangatta, as stars lighten up the night, Uncle Arthur’s scrambling in the dark to try and get a fire alight. We apologized to ‘Dangles’ for fear of hosting an aged invalid. Now we marvelled at his energy and the extra things he did. “A bloke of eighty-eight” I said, “Should be hanging out to dry, but this old bloke’ll live forever. A bloke like him could never die.” Well usually we’re snoring sound when it’s six in the morn, but not with Uncle Arthur; he’s out of bed before it’s dawn. He’s rattling pots and cutting wood, and shouting to us lot “Get outa’ bed ya’ mangy dogs an’ git yer porridge hot.” I’m half awake and scratching before I sat down on my chair. “Here git this in yer sonny boy” old Uncle Arthur’s pointing where the porridge gurgled in a pot; I filled my plate and then sat back, and while I sprinkled sugar, Uncle Arthur sprinkled something black. “What’s that?” I said and eyed his grin, before he winked at me. “Aha” he say’s “This is the stuff that keeps me from eternity. In simple terms, it’s gunpowder” - he saw my quiz like frown. “Son, this is long life’s elixir; it keeps me young an’ hangin’ ‘round.” “Gunpowder! You’re foolin’ me.” Then I thought, yes it’s a trick. Gunpowder’s what they put in bombs and so would surely make him sick.” But Uncle Arthur’s serious about gunpowder goin’ down. He threw a cupful in the fire and the thump fair shook the ground. ‘Luber’, he’d been pouring tea with his back turned to the fire, and flames shot ‘round his backside and the billy it flew higher. “Ya’ bloody great Galah!” He screamed, and threw a round-arm hook. But Uncle Arthur ducked and weaved as though he wrote the boxing book … “Well yer pack o’ dirty buggers, I can smell youse, ‘gawd’ yer reek. But I ain’t gunna be like youse; I’m gunna bathe down in the creek.” Uncle Arthur soaped himself up in the flowing Wonnangatta River. Just to see him in that icy flow was enough to make me shiver. And did he shiver, Uncle Arthur. His wrinkly skin turned blue. He shook and shook for half the day and then what does he do? He ups and bloody dies on us, that flamin’ rotten selfish drip. So we got stuck into ‘Dangles’ ‘cause its stuffed our camping trip. “Well its fortunate” I said to ‘Lube’, “There’s a graveyard up here where, we can plant old Uncle Arthur in so grab the shovel over there.” But ‘Dangles’ grabbed the shovel first “Come on you blokes behave! We can’t bury Uncle Arthur here; we ain’t got flowers for his grave.” So we tied up Uncle Arthur on the roof rack of the car, and soon we were amongst the swamp where the bogs all are. Nobody wants to slop in mud, so argued on a vote who should - we thought we heard this ghostly voice - ‘I would if I could’. The funeral parlour took him and dragged his family ‘round to organize his burial; it’s luck we didn’t put him underground, for his wish is not to be buried down at the cemetery. Uncle Arthur’s will demands his ashes, be scattered in the sea. And so his family and friends had gathered all as one, listening to the eulogies about what Uncle Arthur done. I never really knew him well, but from what his family says, he was a ‘real eccentric;’ full of wit and funny ways. Sadly now I watched his coffin slowly dropping out of sight. Amazing Grace filled the air - a song to walk him through the night. Sobs and tears were audible as Uncle Arthur’s body called it quits … but his humorous spirit lived - he blew the crematorium to bits.

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Uncle Arthur

‘She’s on again - the annual campin’ trip regatta, and we’ve got ourselves together for our plans to Wonnangatta. The high country; you can’t beat it for the peace and quiet unless of course some plans get changed that nearly cause a riot. Flamin’ ‘Dangles’ has to go and add another to the crew. It’s his old Uncle Arthur who insists on coming too. Now we don’t know this Uncle Arthur, ‘but he’s ‘gotta’ pull his weight. “Oh he will” said ‘Dangles’, before he mentions - he’s nearly eighty-eight. Well ‘Luber’ struck the bar and spilt his grog upon the floor. Gordon took a swing at ‘Dangles’ and then he took two more. I tried to calm the angry pair from sending ‘Dangles’ to his grave, but neither now was in the mood for wanting to behave. “A man of eighty-eight! You bloody dumb and stupid fool” - “Yeah ya’ great Galah ‘Dangles’, we struggle up there as a rule.” Then ‘Dangles’ gained his senses and recovered from his scare. “Uncle Arthur’s bloody fit; yeah, he’s fitter than you pair.” “We’ll see of that” ‘Luber’ sneered and made a grab for ‘Dangles’ arm. “Take us to this ‘superman’ so we can see his youthful charm” - Well what a shock us trio got when Uncle Arthur showed his face. He looked no more than forty - a picture of the human race. “Well come on chaps lets hit the road” old Uncle Arthur said. “I’ve got all me gear out in the hall an’ me tucker and me bed.” ‘Dangles’ grinned and looked at us - “Hey stop chaffin’ at the bit. We ain’t goin’ ‘til tomorrow so you’ll have to learn to sit.” “I can’t sit around and watch the world go slipping by. Git’ yer gear and let’s clear out” old Uncle Arthur heaved a sigh. He’s got us by the throat he has, this seeming ageless bloke who’s so full of energy, when he should be laying down to ‘croak’. So off we go ‘round midday, and reach Licola around four, cross the Wellington a couple of times, then climbed more and more. Drove on the Howitt High Plains before the long winding descend through a creek and muddy bog holes, that seem to be on every bend. Uncle Arthur’s out and winching like a man who is possessed. We plead with to him slow down before he has a cardiac arrest. And when driving into Wonnangatta, as stars lighten up the night, Uncle Arthur’s scrambling in the dark to try and get a fire alight. We apologized to ‘Dangles’ for fear of hosting an aged invalid. Now we marvelled at his energy and the extra things he did. “A bloke of eighty-eight” I said, “Should be hanging out to dry, but this old bloke’ll live forever. A bloke like him could never die.” Well usually we’re snoring sound when it’s six in the morn, but not with Uncle Arthur; he’s out of bed before it’s dawn. He’s rattling pots and cutting wood, and shouting to us lot “Get outa’ bed ya’ mangy dogs an’ git yer porridge hot.” I’m half awake and scratching before I sat down on my chair. “Here git this in yer sonny boy” old Uncle Arthur’s pointing where the porridge gurgled in a pot; I filled my plate and then sat back, and while I sprinkled sugar, Uncle Arthur sprinkled something black. “What’s that?” I said and eyed his grin, before he winked at me. “Aha” he say’s “This is the stuff that keeps me from eternity. In simple terms, it’s gunpowder” - he saw my quiz like frown. “Son, this is long life’s elixir; it keeps me young an’ hangin’ ‘round.” “Gunpowder! You’re foolin’ me.” Then I thought, yes it’s a trick. Gunpowder’s what they put in bombs and so would surely make him sick.” But Uncle Arthur’s serious about gunpowder goin’ down. He threw a cupful in the fire and the thump fair shook the ground. ‘Luber’, he’d been pouring tea with his back turned to the fire, and flames shot ‘round his backside and the billy it flew higher. “Ya’ bloody great Galah!” He screamed, and threw a round-arm hook. But Uncle Arthur ducked and weaved as though he wrote the boxing book … “Well yer pack o’ dirty buggers, I can smell youse, ‘gawd’ yer reek. But I ain’t gunna be like youse; I’m gunna bathe down in the creek.” Uncle Arthur soaped himself up in the flowing Wonnangatta River. Just to see him in that icy flow was enough to make me shiver. And did he shiver, Uncle Arthur. His wrinkly skin turned blue. He shook and shook for half the day and then what does he do? He ups and bloody dies on us, that flamin’ rotten selfish drip. So we got stuck into ‘Dangles’ ‘cause its stuffed our camping trip. “Well its fortunate” I said to ‘Lube’, “There’s a graveyard up here where, we can plant old Uncle Arthur in so grab the shovel over there.” But ‘Dangles’ grabbed the shovel first “Come on you blokes behave! We can’t bury Uncle Arthur here; we ain’t got flowers for his grave.” So we tied up Uncle Arthur on the roof rack of the car, and soon we were amongst the swamp where the bogs all are. Nobody wants to slop in mud, so argued on a vote who should - we thought we heard this ghostly voice - ‘I would if I could’. The funeral parlour took him and dragged his family ‘round to organize his burial; it’s luck we didn’t put him underground, for his wish is not to be buried down at the cemetery. Uncle Arthur’s will demands his ashes, be scattered in the sea. And so his family and friends had gathered all as one, listening to the eulogies about what Uncle Arthur done. I never really knew him well, but from what his family says, he was a ‘real eccentric;’ full of wit and funny ways. Sadly now I watched his coffin slowly dropping out of sight. Amazing Grace filled the air - a song to walk him through the night. Sobs and tears were audible as Uncle Arthur’s body called it quits … but his humorous spirit lived - he blew the crematorium to bits.

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