I totally would have sacrificed my Pretty In Pink barbie doll to win the title of “Miss Noorat Show Girl” circa ANYTIME in the early ‘80’s. To this day, I am uncertain whether it was a bold, feminist stance made by my mother, or more likely due to the fact that I was one of four girls, and this would mean an unjustified bill at Reicha’s Drapery on some flippant finery (pink…pink and frilly was my fantasy in case you were wondering).
I live a long way from the mountain now, but each year as November draws close, I keep a casual watch on the south west weather forecast and eagerly anticipate the Merry Go Round images of my friends and their kids that will inevitably flood my Facebook page.
There were only two options for Noorat Show Day weather. Either insanely, stinking hot, or belting rain from a blackened sky. However, the anticipation was half the attraction. As a Noorat Primary School kid, the annual pilgrimage down to the showgrounds on the Friday afternoon was the height of excitement. We squealed and skipped and got ushered back into our lines as our teacher bravely lead the charge. A glimpse of the tip of the spinning wheel set us into a frenzy and the rumour that the Mad Max was here this year filtered down the line. The carni’s teased us with the promise of their ‘anyone can win’ stalls and we were swallowed whole in the bustle of imagination and excitement. We dragged our feet on exit and were equally thrilled by the incredible possibility that we “MAY JUST MISS THE BUSES” that fed us all home across the countryside if we didn’t hurry it up.
That evening after dinner, Mum and Dad loaded us into the station wagon and drove us back to the football ground to marvel at the progression from this afternoon. Now the carni’s were sipping a tinnie as they checked and double checked their stall or ride, anticipating a nice, cold beer from the Noorat Pub once the work was done. For once the back of the wagon was the best place to be squashed as we whipped our heads back and forth to take it all in. As a parent, I am now well versed at the ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ strategy employed by my parents, and this family drive around the oval was possibly just a clever plot to ‘tire the kids out’.
Our dreams that evening were filled with that $20 note and just how we were going to spend it.
After the morning milking was done, we feathered up in our finery, picked at Mum’s brave attempt of an early sandwich and once again took the trip to the “Glittering Showgrounds”; for the old footy oval was long gone.
My memory features the dust; always the dust, creeping into our sandals and whipping into our eyes. But the smell of deep fried donuts and the deafening carnival music and flashing lights, drew my heart to all the corners of the fair.
Bugger the chooks and baking; we went straight to the main event. The incredible indecision as to which show bag to buy was met with the delightful pressure to hurry up and decide, because those fantastic all rounder Bertie Beetle bags sold out fast. Don’t dare make the rookie mistake of carelessly strolling underneath the terror rides (vomit alert) and DO NOT go to the open air toilet blocks located under the ferris wheel. With my fairy floss firmly wedged tight under my arm, I made my presence known on the Dodgems and waited for the perfect moment to drop the ball in the clown’s mouth. By this stage the heat meant the crimp in my hair was drooping and I feverishly scouted the sideshows for my last thrills before meeting back at the car after the 3pm Grand Parade. No dawdling! Straight back to the car (it was a long walk up the farm track for those who didn’t listen to instructions…never me, of course).
Someone would inevitably be vomiting by bedtime, and the bath to remove the layers of grime that night was incredibly refreshing, despite the sunburn. And so it was over for another year, as our minds swam wildly on our pillows that evening.
Oh how I wish I could be there this November with my big brother and sisters heckling me for any leftover coins (not likely), and Mum and Dad strolling about calling out to the locals and checking out the livestock. But how times have changed. Now I would be the parent loaded up with raincoats, drink bottles and/or sunscreen, proudly snapping photos as my kids tackled the pink pig train. Maybe next year.
So just a word of advice from someone who still dreams of the farm and lives and breathes ‘home’; if there are cows on top of Mount Noorat on Show Day morning, make sure you pack your brolly.
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