As a little boy growing up in Gatton I remember my father used to stay up after the rest of the family had gone to bed and watch TV by himself. On occasion I would creep out of my bedroom to join him on the couch and fall asleep watching late night TV.
On one such occasion I slunk out of my bedroom, the only light in the house was that from the TV screen, I climbed into the old couch and snuggled up to my father. He was watching “Deliverance”. We made it to the “Duelling Banjos” scene before the creeping menace of the film began to unnerve me. I pressed myself into my father and looked up at him.
“Daddy… you’ll never take me to that place, will you?”
My father gently put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
“Davey… we live in Gatton.”
That confused me. To me Gatton was not a desperate backwater inhabited by sinister hillbillies. Gatton was a warm and loving town where lived my warm and loving family who tended their warm and loving potato farms (which grew warm and loving potatoes).
My father, having grown up in the sophisticated metropolis that was Brisbane in the 1960s had a different perspective of my warm and loving home town.
The sophisticated country girl will discover that many men have this same confusing relationship with particular articles of their clothing. It might be a pair jeans or a shirt that her man has grown up with and still loves. Sincerely believing that, like a fine wine, the article of clothing only improves with age. However, in the eyes of the sophisticated country girl, the article of clothing is no more than a squalid rag that is either well out of fashion or was never in fashion and is better placed in the company of a backwater hillbilly than worn by the object of her affections. (more…)