Up it popped on a nostalgia site South Australia way back when Adelaide Station, I recall this sight From when I was a boy, aged about ten.
Sharing a platform, all agleam The Overland to Melbourne, great delight And a Mt Lofty special getting up steam SAR 522 -mountain engine of might.
As if to answer a young boy’s dream I rode the Overland one fine spring And the hills’ excursions with the idea of steam to Belair picnics; hear the wheels sing.
When I was old enough to extend my range The Red Hen became my frequent ride From Albert Park to the beach at Grange or Adelaide station with its platforms wide.
I remember the concourse with its clock in the centre And climbing the ramp to busy city streets And the staircase offering an extra place to enter Topped by the pie cart with floaters for eats.
All is now changed as years have gone past The station now houses a casino’s glory While suburban trains still hold fast And the platforms tell their story.
A recurring memory of my 15-year-old self, hanging out with some nerdy peers at lunch time in the school quadrangle.
Deputy Principal approaches us. “Why are you boys slouching around here when you could be kicking a football on the oval? And, Ryle, what are you smiling at?”
Me: “I’m not smiling, sir!”
Deputy Principal: “You were born with a most unfortunate face then!”
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Since then, I have generally presented an “unfortunate face” to authority that I intuitively perceive to lack authenticity. Clearly my visage rattled the deputy principal, who mistook my anxious “go to” teenage defense mechanism as defiance.
My unfortunate face unbalanced the Boss’s mate poking fun at the eruption of a “lighthouse” pimple on my adolescent forehead. “At least I’m mature enough to have developed to this stage, unlike some,” I retorted. This was unacceptable behaviour from an underling, but it was worth being “counseled” later that day.
An official leaked to us that he had been instructed to “sit on the heads” of the team I was working with. My unfortunate face retorted, “That’s alright, we’ll just put on our sharp pointy hats!”
My church once went to the licensing court to oppose the granting of a liquor license to a nearby servo chain. The servo lawyer objected to our presence as he deemed a church to be concerned only with “more heavenly matters.” Our unfortunate faces presented our church constitution that expected us to address social justice matters.
I was involved in assisting and advocating for misplaced people who had suddenly become vulnerable to Australia’s reversal of refugee resettlement policies. Dumped in the street with nowhere to go they needed help, and we gave it. The Amnesty badge wearing Minister for Immigration declared my unfortunate face “un-Australian.”
These are just a few instances over decades of my unfortunate face disturbing those who gaze upon it. Oddly, others don’t seem to mind it! My unfortunate face is allegedly retired now. It still remains the only face I have to look out at the world from. Unfortunate as it is, it continues to serve me well.
I take comfort from another “unfortunate face,” my lifelong mentor, guide and inspiration to whom my life is devoted, and who “had no stately form or majesty to attract us, no beauty that we should desire Him.” Isaiah 53:2
“A fragment is part of the whole; the whole contains the fragments.”
During a busy week filled with interruptions to my interruptions, this phrase hit me in the face (yes, another interruption!).
Everything has a place. Everything belongs. We may not understand it now or even strongly disagree with this notion.
If we change our perspective, we begin to see how it all fits together. We begin to see how other pieces, whether seen or still hidden, help complete the picture.
We may not see the final result until we pass into life beyond, and maybe not even then.
It’s reassuring to know that there is a whole, and each of us, despite our difficulties, has a part in it.
My Saturday morning walk to buy a questionable newspaper (solely for the TV guide) takes me past four houses, two apartment buildings, a vacant lot, a tavern, a liquor store, a coffee shop, a florist, and a supermarket, before reaching the Ampol servo where I make my purchase, then return.
At 7 a.m the only person I see today is the cheerful vendor. It is a 5-minute, 365 meter journey, repeated on the way back.
The opportunity for contemplation was exhilarating!
Yesterday Meta announced that it is quitting fact-checking “in the name of free speech.” Many media outlets and commentators are clutching their pearls at the anticipated flood of misinformation about to be released. How popular platforms’ tepid and halfhearted approach to this enterprise has impressed them so far is beyond me.
The best source of fact-checking is in our own laps.
A Facebook friend outlines a very simple “Do It Yourself” verifying process that has been around long before the internet. It is ultimately more satisfying. In addition, the internet, properly used, provides vast banks of information that make DIY a cinch.
When the next meme, breathless story, or “science” report pops up on your screen, run it through the following process.
Who told me?
How sound is their background and experience generally?
How sound is the author or group? Research further if not known.
What biases condition the source of information?
What is the information trying to achieve?
What is my bias – why does this info attract or repel me?
Information, no matter its source, filtered through this exercise, will find its proper place on the scale of reliability.
Wondering Pilgrim 