JERRY –
Jerry arrived in our town in 1985 – opened a cutting edge hair dressing salon in our main street. Of Indonesian birth he’d grown up in Amsterdam. He was tall and slim, long hair, decorated with strong masculine jewellery, and tatts that told the story of his life – like a memoir in tattoos! He had an air of class, artiness and quickly attracted the attention of the Gen X kids who had to ‘queue’ well ahead to get in for one of Jerry’s stylish, creative haircuts. In spite of his ‘out there’ appearance he also quickly won the hearts of the more conservative older locals. He was genuinely interested in all the families, was kind, wise, intelligent and of great character. He was an artist – a painter and builder of amazing cabinetry made of materials gleaned from kerbside hard refuse.
I made an appointment, and we clicked immediately. What ensued was a thirty year friendship through which we shared much of our lives. Our talks were always hearty. Warren and Jerry always exchanged hilarious stories of their wild youth. Always a rebel, Jerry was a non conformist to the nth degree. Sadly our wonderful times together ended when he passed away three years ago. As he was dying of cancer he spoke of how much love he had in his heart for his family and friends. However he was never one to suffer fools lightly. ‘I hope I don’t come back as one of those kind of people I don’t like,’ he said to me with a cheeky grin one day. He told us he had no regrets and was at peace. Warren and I spent a lot of time with him in his dying months, doing what we could to help ease him through to his end. An amazing book could be written about his life. Before he died I asked him to write a little about it. If he hadn’t been so unwell I’m sure he would have written a lot more, but to follow is part of what he wrote –
‘In 1986 I arrived in the busy ‘metropolis’ of Tanunda in the Barossa Valley. I’m not sure how I ended up there but they were the best years of my life. I have travelled the world through my trade as a hairdresser – mainly in the world of modelling, and I ended up in this small but lovely country town. My business here was such a success from day one that I figured I’d stay for two years, take the money and run. How wrong I was. I stayed for twenty six years. Country people are different – in a good and positive way. I was deemed to be this ‘cool dude’ from the city, when in fact I was one who in my early years had been a washed up wharfie with no goal or direction. Tanunda and it’s people saved my life. I will be forever grateful for that. Country people are not like city people where there is no sense of community or care. In the city I have lived next door to people who don’t even smile or say hello. In The Barossa I always felt safe and appreciated. Like all small business owners you have clients who become your friends. This brings me to my long friendship with Sue and Warren. From 1986 to now we have seen each other at least once a month and I love them dearly.
I was born and raised through my formative years in Holland. Coming to Australia was hell. You see my parents are Indonesian therefore I am dark-skinned. Australia had just finished with the ‘wogs and dagoes’ and now it was our turn. I couldn’t speak any English when I arrived but because I was put down at school and on the street, I made an effort to learn the language so well that I soon spoke it concisely and eloquently.
So, what is the question? Is it about friendship, birth, death, marriage or is it just … it is what it is? It would take me a hundred pages to write about my life but in the end who gives a f…… When I’m gone life will go on. We either become victims or recover. I have always refused to be a victim. I’ve marched my way through enemy lines and will always continue to walk through that door of fear.’
Friends like Jerry leave a mark on your heart. People of The Valley still speak his name in everyday conversations. We tell and retell his stories. Not all people leave the world this way.
Imagine leaving the world having painted thousands of paintings or writing myriads of pages of literature – poems, novels, essays. What a legacy. For us lovers of the arts, literature, how grateful we are for those who are so dedicated to their craft, so diligent, so prolific. I am grateful for the works of people I am honoured to call friends, even though out of touch with some. My poet friend from the seventies, much of whose work I have kept, wrote something profound about poetry.
‘What value is a magnificent sunset without sharing it with someone who sees it as you see it? Why was any poem ever written? To communicate the spirit of the experience to another being. To record the writer’s awareness of the sensation, the inner feeling. We write for posterity. Somewhere in us we feel that one day some other person will take up the piece of paper our poem was written on and feel the whole joy, pain, anger, longing, love, hate, lust, humour, elation, enlightenment, or whatever we felt at the time of writing – the fullness of that experience.’
I am so grateful to my Year Eleven English teacher – Mr. Robert Aston, who instilled in me my love of poetry. Poems like ‘The Ice Cart’ by Wilfred Gibson – a poem of vivid imagery that takes you wholly and solely to the place he was writing about –
…. ‘Over sapphire berg and emerald floe
beneath the still cold ruby glow
of everlasting Polar night
bewildered by the queer half light
Until I stumbled unawares
upon a creek where big white bears
plunged headlong down with flourished heels
and floundered after shining seals
through shivering seas of blinding blue ….’
The poem ‘The Highwayman’ by Alfred Noyes was another favourite – a graphic and stirring tale of love and violent tragic death. And ‘Cargoes’ by John Masefield was one I loved for its wonderful language.
Thank you Mr. Aston wherever you are. Teachers were never your friends in my day but I’m sure we would be friends today.
Till next time.
Sue