Camp Hill School of the Arts circa 1940. It's now painted white and there is a new fence.
This post was meant to be an ode to snag-proof pantyhose but that, I've decided, is a bit too optimistic a concept for a weekend afternoon. Instead, here are a few lines about my visit to the 'Camp Hill School of the Arts' where I went to vote this morning.
While I stood on the footpath outside the hall, lining up with the other voters, a man came up and handed me a " Vote 1 Socialist Alliance" (I don't think so) card which immediately turned into a handy fan and fly waver-awayer. Along with something about the cost of Lady Finger bananas the briefest of thoughts about an individual's responsibilities in a democracy as opposed to their democratic rights flitted (as most thoughts do) through my consciousness.
While I stood on the footpath outside the hall, lining up with the other voters, a man came up and handed me a " Vote 1 Socialist Alliance" (I don't think so) card which immediately turned into a handy fan and fly waver-awayer. Along with something about the cost of Lady Finger bananas the briefest of thoughts about an individual's responsibilities in a democracy as opposed to their democratic rights flitted (as most thoughts do) through my consciousness.
Compulsory voting means that even though you may waste your say with a half-smart informal vote, you do have to have remembered the Federal Election was on and you do have to have stood in the sun for 10 minutes or so being handed how to vote cards. Barring sunstroke, everyone is at least given the chance to decide (and, Mr Bush, we use a pencil).
The line moved forward and I was inside in welcome shade, six evenly spaced ceiling fans whirring above. It was still relatively early in the day so the people at the trestle tables marking off the electoral roll weren't looking too hot and frazzled, yet. Although the process from this point was fairly quick and painless, (zimbles can't go for too many political complexities) I did have a few minutes to glance around the hall.
I drive past the hall every day on my way to and from work but this was the first time I had been inside the hall since I was little. I suddenly realised that, here, time had stood still.
The hall is a weather-board structure about 25 m x 10 m in its main part with a pine wood floor and corrugated iron roof. At one end is a small stage with a worn dark-red velveteen curtain. Beside the stage, a polished wood board with gold embossing lists the Camp Hill District's fallen. An enameled Union Flag beside an Australian red ensign, date the board to about 1901. Directly above the board is a portrait of the Queen, which, from the look of Her Majesty, must have been added in the 60s.
Standing in that hall today, I imagined a warm November evening in 1942. A Thanksgiving Day ball for the American servicemen is in full swing. The hall is crowded with people dancing, chatting and flirting. Young women in their home-sewn summer evening frocks, bright red lipstick and stylish peep toes twirl, each in the arms of a clean cut local lad or a dress-uniformed soldier. The small but talented jazz band on the stage plays selections of Glen Miller tunes into the early hours. The good ladies of the ladies' auxiliary sell cool cordials, cups of tea and a judiciously invigorated fruit punch from their servery between the hall and its enclosed verandah. They don't miss a thing. Outside, in the cooler air, the men talk quietly of politics, cricket and the war.
Just then, an election official taps me on the arm and points me to a desk and I'm back. Name please?
The line moved forward and I was inside in welcome shade, six evenly spaced ceiling fans whirring above. It was still relatively early in the day so the people at the trestle tables marking off the electoral roll weren't looking too hot and frazzled, yet. Although the process from this point was fairly quick and painless, (zimbles can't go for too many political complexities) I did have a few minutes to glance around the hall.
I drive past the hall every day on my way to and from work but this was the first time I had been inside the hall since I was little. I suddenly realised that, here, time had stood still.
The hall is a weather-board structure about 25 m x 10 m in its main part with a pine wood floor and corrugated iron roof. At one end is a small stage with a worn dark-red velveteen curtain. Beside the stage, a polished wood board with gold embossing lists the Camp Hill District's fallen. An enameled Union Flag beside an Australian red ensign, date the board to about 1901. Directly above the board is a portrait of the Queen, which, from the look of Her Majesty, must have been added in the 60s.
Standing in that hall today, I imagined a warm November evening in 1942. A Thanksgiving Day ball for the American servicemen is in full swing. The hall is crowded with people dancing, chatting and flirting. Young women in their home-sewn summer evening frocks, bright red lipstick and stylish peep toes twirl, each in the arms of a clean cut local lad or a dress-uniformed soldier. The small but talented jazz band on the stage plays selections of Glen Miller tunes into the early hours. The good ladies of the ladies' auxiliary sell cool cordials, cups of tea and a judiciously invigorated fruit punch from their servery between the hall and its enclosed verandah. They don't miss a thing. Outside, in the cooler air, the men talk quietly of politics, cricket and the war.
Just then, an election official taps me on the arm and points me to a desk and I'm back. Name please?
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