Flamingo Dancer’s blog

Old Parliament House...

nobody@vox.com(Flamingo Dancer) — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:04:55 +1000

Prime Minister's office - 1988

yes he did sit with his back to the window - which was not bullet proof, and was often open for fresh air - so many missed chances....

Government party meeting room 1927 - 1988

Those two booths in the corners are indeed "cone of silence" sound proof booths for trading state secrets and general gossip. We often though Agent 86 was running our country and we were right! This room was used until 1988! please don't laugh....

restaurant, inner court, Old Pariliament House

Where we celebrated Mother's Day lunch - fitting for Queen of the World don't you think - only parliament will do, dahling

inner court yard, view from the restaurant

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HER story in HIStory - Prime Minister's Wives Quilt

nobody@vox.com(Flamingo Dancer) — Mon, 12 May 2008 11:45:36 +1000

Prime Minister's Wives Quilt , Old parliament House

details Prime Minister's Wives, Quilt

Margaret Whitlam (Gough Whitlam)

Dame Zara Holt (Sir Harold Holt)

some of them are a little masucline looking - well we know poor Margret Whitlam is but we love her all the more for that- I am sure that SOME of them must have been somewhat attractive?

Notice Sonia McMahon (Billy McMahon/Liberal Party) was absent. Sonia (Julian's Mum) probably thought she was too beautiful to be there with the rest of the herd, but after so many years "doing lunch" and driving while under the influence charges her bloom has faded somewhat!

[more panel photographs in my photo library]

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Australian War Memorial, Canberra

nobody@vox.com(Flamingo Dancer) — Mon, 12 May 2008 09:59:30 +1000

Commemorative Courtyard

In front of the Hall of Memory is the Pool of Reflection, crowned by the Eternal Flame. To left and right, at a mezzanine level, visitors can see stone cloisters, where dark, bronze panels of the Roll of Honour record the names of over 102,000 Australian servicemen and women who have died in wars since the late nineteenth century. These names, listed alphabetically and by unit, do not include rank or honour. Many visitors insert paper poppies in the niches of the Roll of Honour, next to a name that has personal or group connections. .http://www.awm.gov.au/virtualtour/commemorative.asp

Australian War Memorial, Canberra 1

Wall of Rememberance for the Fallen

Names of the fallen honored with Flanders Poppies

names of the fallen

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

The focus of the Memorial is the Hall of Memory, a quiet place for contemplation of the efforts of ordinary Australians in war and for the remembrance of those who suffered and died. The Hall is a complex symbolic area, consisting of a number of pieces.

Men from Snowy River Banner

Australian War Memorial Museum

Memorial staute

old and new Parliament House, Canberra

The Man From Snowy River - Andrew Barton "Banjo" Patterson

THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
    That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
    So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
    Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
    And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
    The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
    He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
    No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
    He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
    He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
    And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
    There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
    And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
    And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
    Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
    “I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
    For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
  Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
    The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
    Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
    But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
    They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
    No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
    Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
    If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
    Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
    With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
    But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
    And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
    Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
    From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
    Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
    No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
    It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
    Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
    And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
    While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
    He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
    It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
    Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
    At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
    And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
    As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
    In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
    With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
    He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
    And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
    He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
    For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
    Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
    At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
    To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
    And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

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