REACHING OUT TO THE CITY LIGHT.....CHAPTER 14

                                                            

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My family ties to Gympie had been severed a few years earlier. With my brother Graham married, raising his family, and working in Mackay, a city in North Queensland, Mum and Nana left Gympie to live at Slade Point, a seaside suburb of Mackay, to be closer to my brother and his family.  Thoughtfully and generously in gratitude for both women having gone through many hardships and difficulties to ensure he and I each had a secure upbringing, and a happy, as near to normal childhood as possible, Graham purchased a small two-bedroom house for them to begin their new lives.  Rarely taking time off from work, I made infrequent, fleeting visits to welcome a new nephew, or niece, whenever whichever applied.  Graham had three children. Separately, individually, Mum and Nana came for lengthier stays with me in Brisbane. So much was happening around me in my workplace. I had a lot of responsibilities during those exciting times and, of course, to be honest, paraphrasing the lyrics of a song, “I didn’t want to miss out on a thing”.

In fact, because I had so much time and money owing to me from leave not taken, I innocently became the pawn in a game orchestrated by the union in the Sydney hosiery factory. I had never been a member of a union, and to this day the status quo remains. It is probably why the union mob chose me to be the scapegoat in their silly, time consuming game. I had nothing to do with the workers within Sydney factory, nor them, with me. The reasoning, which was beyond my logical thought and comprehension at the time, continues to baffle me these many years later.

When I was advised by head office in Sydney that the union threatened to close down the Sydney factory; that it was bandying my name around without my permission, setting me up as some example in their socialistic blackmail, I saw red. The stupidity of it all made me feel white-hot anger. To this day, even though my reaction to being held to ransom cost me a lot, I have never regretted what I did.

Sitting quietly, alone in my office, I wrote a concise, precise, succinct note to the company in Sydney asking my letter be passed onto the union. No one advised me how to handle the matter, nor did they know what I had in mind to do. It was something I had to handle personally, I believed.  I told no one, not even John, my boss, until after I wrote and posted the letter.

In the letter I wrote: “My not taking holidays has been of my own choosing and free will. I write to inform you that I hereby forfeit and relinquish all time and monies owing to me from accrued holiday leave, and from accumulated sick leave.”

I felt like telling them to “put that in their pipes and smoke it” or more descriptively harshly, to put it where the sun didn’t shine, but, I kept my dignity intact.

The strike action didn’t go ahead. I heard nothing further from the union, not even an acknowledgement to my letter.

Promotional evenings continued.  Some were organised to be held “out-of-premises”; in chosen restaurants or major city hotels. John and I appeared together on a local Brisbane morning televisions programme, which was hosted by a gentleman named, John Crook. We discussed Kolotex pantyhose, the benefits etc., and the place the company held within the industry nationally.

One special fun (hilarious) event I organised was held at “The Courtyard Restaurant” in  the suburb of Bowen Hills. We had held one or two functions at the restaurant previously. John and I had also often hosted luncheons for business associates. The particular evening was to have a “Hawaiian” theme, for no particular reason other than I thought it would be fun. The evening wasn’t to present a new product, but a goodwill-public relations gesture for the buyers and departmental managers from Brisbane’s Myer stores. More than likely, to be honest, it was just a good excuse to have a party!

During the few weeks leading up to the evening, I spent time with the owner/chef of the restaurant, planning the format and choosing the menu for the evening’s pleasures. We decided upon a luau. Not an authentic Hawaiian Luau, of course, as the party was to be held in-doors in the restaurant’s function room, but it was the theme we chose.

A long, low table made from trestles set on blocks was laid out. It ran down the centre of the room and was to be surrounded by large plump cushions for the guests to sit and lounge upon. The room was transformed from a boring nondescript one of shades of grey and burgundy to a tropical paradise filled with potted ferns, palm fronds, banana leaves, frangipani blooms, hibiscus flowers and vibrant, multi-coloured sprays of bougainvillea blossoms. I begged, borrowed, but didn’t steal fish-nets, shells and Japanese floating buoys.

As an aside, the owner of “The Courtyard Restaurant” represented Australian in the 1972 Summer Olympics in the weight-lifting section.

Generously, a neighbour of one staff member lent me a small, no-longer-sea-going craft that was decoratively placed at one end of the room, with much effort and sweat! I went on a search of suitable Hawaiian music, and in the meanwhile, hired grass skirts and leis for my junior female staff members. Much to their shock-horror, I told them of my plans, and their roles in those plans for the evening.  Under instruction, after they finally realised I was serious, I guided them in the art of hula-dancing. Under my strict choreography, they spent their lunch hours leading up to the event, learning how to sway to the music. It was so funny. They did everything possible to try to talk me out of their on-stage debut performance, but I wouldn’t listen to the many excuses they invented.  Too much fun was being had, and I knew that eventually, they, too, would enjoy “the moment”.

Melbourne Cup Day was the day before the event.  Melbourne Cup Day in our Baxter Street premises was always “party day”. “Sweeps” were organized. Fresh prawns brought in from popular seafood outlet, Burleigh Marr at Breakfast Creek, an area well-known to "Brisbanites", together with other delicious savoury delights were part of the afternoon celebrations. Each year, our boss generously supplied a television set from his home, or hired one for the staff to be able to watch the famous horse race. Equally generously, he went to the Tattersall’s Club for lunch, leaving the rest of us to the fun and games.

Come mid-day someone was nominated to drive to Burleigh Marr to pick up the ordered seafood. Usually the day before Melbourne Cup Day, I was responsible for to picking up the necessary liquor supplies, together with appropriate mixes. From noon onwards, no work was conducted by the Queensland office. The Glo International showroom became the site for the party.

Each year at these parties, I knew there was no point expecting work out of any of us, once the feature race had been run. Grabbing some petty cash, I would commandeer one of the store men to run across to the pub on the corner up the road from our premises to purchase a bottle of Scotch whisky, John’s spirit of choice. As soon as our boss arrived after his lengthy lunch at his Club, he’d be confronted by his high-spirited staff, and me, placing a glass of Scotch in his hand. He had no choice, other than to join in the revelry. He learned very quickly that any protests he made were purposely not heard, or were purposely ignored.

The Melbourne Cup Day party before the Hawaiian party at the restaurant, John walked into the showroom to be confronted by the sight of two of his salesmen, Ken and Charles, with leis around their necks, dressed in hula skirts, swaying non-seductively, out of beat, to the rhythm of Hawaiian music blasting forth. John just shook his head, burst out laughing, and joined in with the fun. He knew he didn’t have a chance in winning the argument.  What fun was had and shared that afternoon.  A wonderful, crazy example of “staff bonding”.

The following day was busily spent finishing off the final arrangements for the evening ahead. My “girls”, the “stars” of the show were still good-humoured protesting about their coming performance, but I remained adamant. I told them “this could be your defining moment!”   

At the restaurant, dressed in their grass skirts, bikini-tops and colourful leis the time arrived for their opening act. Nervously, they clustered together in a room off to the side of the stage that had been set up in the function room.

Being the consummate “agent/manager/choreographer” my main fear was not that they wouldn’t go on, but that they would get the giggles. With a straight face, trying to hold down my own laughter, I glared at them, threatening them with all my might if they dared giggle they would regret it for life. The “Spectre of Lee” would haunt them forever. I instructed them not to look at each other while on stage, but to “get up there and give it your all!”

And that they did…expertly. Not a beat was missed as they did their “dance”. They were brilliant, receiving loud applause and accolades from our guests at the end of their performance. I sighed with relief!  As did they, I am sure.

They each told me later that they weren’t game to get the giggles; that I had put the fear of God into them with my before-performance lecture and threat! We laughed many times afterwards when we talked about that night. No harm was done; no one was embarrassed, and a lot of fun was had.  

I think my original thought for this particular theme emanated from my childhood. When I was a little girl, I always dressed as an Hawaiian Hula dancer when I attended our local children's fancy dress balls.

A number of years ago one of the lasses who was a member of the “dance troupe’ came to visit me here where I presently live. She was, at that stage, the possessor of a Phd. in Marketing, and was lecturing at Griffith University on the Gold Coast. Recalling the Hawaiian night, we laughed our heads off over it. Again, she told me there was no way they were going to get the giggles. “Lee” had spoken! At least on the night, my conviction and firm words worked, even if I was trying vainly to bury my own laughter. I will always remember the looks of absolute terror on their faces before they went “on stage”.  I wish I had a video, or at least photographs of that evening’s performance.

Our guests sipped on colourfully-decorated tropical cocktails served in scooped -out pineapples upon arrival. Some chose to stay with the cocktails throughout the evening, others drank their choice of beverages. Sounds of "ooi-ng and ahh-ing" echoed through the room when dinner was served. The food was laid out down the centre of the table. The menu included, as the centre-piece, a whole suckling pig, its crackling crisp and golden, served on a large platter surrounded by char-grilled pineapple rings and stuffed tomatoes. It was accompanied by chicken dishes, baked fish, coconut prawns, laden fresh fruit platters, confetti rice, vegetables, and a variety of salads. The feast was followed by coconut desserts, macadamia nut tarts, and more.

Those who managed to drag themselves away from the low-set table danced the night, and the calories, away. Others chose to watch on from their large cushions, chatting amongst each other as their meal digested slowly.

The night was a huge success. Everyone had a wonderful time, including my "hula dancers", who, by the way, never went on to achieve fame and fortune on the stage circuit!

To be continued...