FISHEN' FOR A BITE

HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT, FISHEN’ THAT IS.

Who doesn’t like to have a fish, the smelly bait, the slimy fish, and the thrill of the “chase”. The wonderful sight of little kids just relaxing, the innocence, boys and girls. The Dad’s and Mum’s explaining the fundamentals’ of patience and persevering, OH, and how to bait and cast.
Fishing is an elemental lesson in life stuff. It brings families together in a common goal, fishing is a learning curve, the end result; “A BLOODY GOOD FEED”.
But hang on!! Have I digressed, we are only going fishing, how can philosophy be a consequence of scaling a fish. If I really put my mind to the subject, and I have, look at the progression.
Seaside, inland waterways, doesn’t matter. WHY?
“let’s go fishing, come on kids, fish for tea”. WHY?
Did you know that the spontaneous purchase of fisnen’ stuff makes up 35% of sales?
When did you have your first fish, maybe a bent pin and some cotton?
Remember sitting and watching, thinking a little?
Is it the only sport that provides; recreation, family bonding, “A BLOODY GOOD FEED”. Endurance, skill, determination, resolve, imagination and perseverance?
Fishing provides the basis to “untwine”.
Hands and fingers provide and ideal place to store hooks.
Some times you can earn a living from the activity, but it’s a hard life.
So therefore that’s what ‘FISHEN FOR A LIVEN’, for me was / is all about.

All of the senior men in my life, OH, and me MUM, showed me a thing or two about catching a fish.
GOD knows when I caught my first fish, but it started a progression, a development that has not finished to this day. When we moved to BRUNSWICK HEADS, the boys would awake at “sparrow fart” and head for the Boat Harbour. Sometimes, maybe a fish would result, mostly they would return without the knife, several yards of fishing line and minus many sinkers and hooks.
Sometimes they returned with a bucket of fresh bait, they called them BUGS, BALMAIN BUGS. They soon learnt that this BAIT!! Was more suited to breakfast. At 50 cents a kilo the splendiferous Bug was a non event for the trawler men.

In (http://www.johnfarls.com) I describe my Uncle Chris and me fishing for Luderick, had the best times. But this is BRUNZ, this is about FISNEN’ FOR A LIVEN’, fishing the; 45’s, the 38’s, Norries, The Local, The Nursery, the Cod Ground, also known as THE WINDARRA BANKS. To a lesser extent the Brunswick River. DROP LINEING, LONG LINES, FISH TRAPS, ROD AND REEL.
SELF PROMOTION. YOU BET, BUT YOU WILL RELATE. http://www.johnfarls.com, http://www.johnfarlsbrunz.com.

YACHTIES, LITTLE STORY

Photo taken today, 45 foot Ketch in big problems.

VRA rescue boat deciced to abort crossing the BRUNSWICK RIVER BAR ENTRANCE, they choose to tow the stricken vessel to Byron Bay.

GOOD CALL.

VRA = VOLUNTEER RESCUE ASSOCIATION, MARINE RESCUE, BRUNSWICK VALLEY, N.S.W.

R.I.P LITTLE FISH

BRUNSWICK HEADS NSW, a fishy story.

(photo captured to-day, before ‘Whitey’ got smacked)

Can you see me? I’m a little tiny whitebait, just had learnt to swim.
Who’s that bugger underneath, he’s silver, slimy, with a great big toothy grin.

It’s all gone dark, I don’t care, ‘cause it’s my claim to fame.
Without me folks the world is stuffed, me? I’m important now.

I’m feelin’ good, I’m in LIFES mighty food chain.

© John Farley, 2008.

MUMS, BLUES, BRUNZ.

FARLEY’S COMPLETELY OBSCURE.

Oh how do you make a blues song, come out with Brunswick Valley?
Can you listen to the mournful sounds of ANZAC and the sounds of old reveille?

Well I’ve listened to the white folk, the black folk and the just no hope.
I just don’t need any misery, but I guess we all go down that awful slope.

And I don’t need someone to love me just follow my big mistake.
Had a good time doin’ it, thanks to all the girls, give yourselves a break.

Been living in the Valley, bangin’ at recallin’ what the hell I’ve done.
Tried to bring me boys up in a way that folks expect, had me problems, and more then some.

Well I got a bagful of worries but go from woe to go, give your head a bloody fist.
Dream, it ai’nt really funny folks, how you do’in? you guys followin’ this round of tryst

If you can learn how love go’s you’re a winner baby, live it with respect put a good feeling every day.
Don’t let good things bring up much, a sad time is commin’, the love of life so precious will bring dismay.

Every time the sun go’s down think of family, have a cry then think of the really good times, think of the good shoes.
Dwell on faces, have a look at a flower, then picture the happy days, my face is worn out, this is my idea of the blues.

Mother’s day at Brunswick Heads, me Mum resides with me her ashes, her presence will never leave my span.
I’ll go with her, I’ll be happy, but I’ll swear we had happy days, wish I knew her dreams before this life, I recon half her ashes were the cigarette ash in the omelets pan.

SMELL THE FLOWERS. You could be my everything.

No copyright here, you know what? I know we stand by as a man and a woman, stand by.

Words slip away, all these words were written using JERRY REEDS ANTHOLOGY. The best bloke who could pick’n and sing. © jerry bloody reed.

BRICKIES LABORER

How kids pick up language, sorry, words.

Heard a joke years ago. Little Tommy is five, mom and dad are building an extension to their house.

I,M A BRICKIES LABORER MUMMY.
© john d Farley, 2008.

The look of excitement and wonder was written on his little face.
“Mummy, what are all them men doing digging up our place”.

Well darling, those men are called brickies, and their going to do some layin’.
Build a little place for Grandma, ‘cos with us she’ll soon be stayin’.

The little bloke observes the action from a vantage on the drive.
There’s things a’churnin’ things a’whirren, so much good stuff, his place has come alive.

“Mummy can I play with them”, in his mind’s eye stuff’s revolvin’.
His little mind was all aglow and new things were evolvin’.

Mummy sees a plan unfolden’, it’s like and educational obsession.
Let him learn some things, he’ll be safe, ‘cos this will be his little life’s big session.

Mister foreman, “Can Tommy join you for lunch, I’ll pack his little crib”.
“No probs missus sends him down and we’ll keep our language glib”

Now not every day can little Tommy go and join his brickie mates.
His little school takes precedence, one last look the little fella’ takes.

Many days he makes his little journey, he sits on an upturned brick.
Eats his crib and he chats a lot, many questions asked, they come out fast and thick.

Well little fella what did you do today, and what did you all talk about.
“We mixed some mud, laid them bricks, and then we raked them out”.

Got a tip for the horses races, what’s number 6 in race 10, and mummy what’s the nags.
We talked about how Manly won, Silver tails they called ‘em, and a bunch of dags.

And then one day little Tommy storms home and pelts his crib down on the table
Only been gone awhile, I’ll ask the little bloke what’s the matter when I can see he’s able.

Tommy darling your home early, there’s a tear in his little eyes.
“We got knocked off, ‘cos we got no bloody work”, his little voice replies.

The boss bloke recons, that bloody truckie is up to his bloody tricks.
“Yez can all go home youse bloody blokes, see yez all tamorra, bloody sorry Tommy.

“We got no bloody bricks”.

© john d farley, 2008.

ANZAC DAY IN BRUNSWICK HEADS, AUSSIE.

JUST HOME FROM THE DAWN SERVICE DOWN AT BRUNSWICK HEADS, ALL THOSE PEOPLE AND KIDS PAYING THEIR RESPECTS TO OUR FALLEN COMRADES.
WHAT DID YOU DO IN YOUR TOWN?, EMAIL ME (johnfarls@bigpond.com)

WEBLOG? BORN AGAIN?

Life recollections are private? Secret things 'ARE' PRIVATE AND PERSONAL.
I'M THE EXCEPTION.
I cannot reason.
No porn, no pixtures, no smut. Bit of "spoken word", I am hard on myself.
But I bet my left one you can relate, I bet you have a story, (www.johnfarls.com).
Regards John F. from down under.