Worth celebrating....
Is it just me or does everyone hope they live to be 100 years old and just a little bit weird?
In the Sydney suburb of Glebe, they’ve just unveiled a plaque for Ernie the Fridge Man.
From his state-housing backyard, Ernie Ridding repaired and donated about 3000 used fridges to people in need, never once taking a cent.
In fact, he had a sign on his gate that read: “Ernie’s charity recycling, if you want to talk money, piss off.”
Whenever he signed his name, Ernie finished with GKN LLM, which apparently stood for “Graduate of Kenmore Nuthouse, Legally and Lawfully Mad”. It’s true that Ernie once spent time in Kenmore Psychiatric Facility, but nobody believes he was actually mad.
The plaque reads: “In giving, he inspires us to give.”
I love a mad old bloke.
When I was a kid, every so often my mum and dad would buy a whole side of beef and hire Buck West to cut it up and whack it in the freezer.
Buck had about two teeth left in his head, great yellowing tombstones that weren’t much good for anything more than grinning.
No matter what time of day Buck wandered into our kitchen, Mum always cooked him sausages and fried eggs, and we’d stand beside the kitchen table, transfixed, as he put on a show.
The old bushy would eat the sausages first, then slowly slide his knife under a whole fried egg and lift it gently from the plate, grinning his toothless grin.
Once he had the whole shiny bumnut (his word, not mine) balanced in mid-air, he would slowly rotate his wrist, turning the greasy white and gold disc towards his great gaping jaw.
With a delicate touch, he would slide the whole egg onto his tongue, theatrically withdraw the knife and swallow! Absolute gold.
And, if we were very very good, Mr West had an encore.
When the last shiny bumnut had disappeared into his gullet, Buck would gleefully raise his old singlet and reveal his huge, mangled, white belly.
Many years earlier, way out bush, Buck had watched his dog “Mutt” picking a fight with a boomer. When the old bushy foolishly intervened, the cornered roo slashed a gaping wound in his abdomen. Miles from town with no car and fewer choices, Buck simply unlaced his work boots and sewed himself together as best he could.
I loved hearing that story and always looked for a telltale shine in the old man’s eye when he got to the bit about the puppy that boot laces couldn’t save.
I don’t think Buck West had any children and I reckon he’d be long gone now, but he’ll never be dead to me.
I once saw an exhibition called Sydney Eccentrics, which I think included Ernie the Fridge Man.
I know it also celebrated a bloke who could imitate the sounds of more than 60 birds, and an old man who practised “pedestrianism” and once walked from Sydney to Parramatta in seven hours with a goat on his shoulders.
You don’t have to be a household name to be worth celebrating.
Tell me about your favourite character.
In the Sydney suburb of Glebe, they’ve just unveiled a plaque for Ernie the Fridge Man.
From his state-housing backyard, Ernie Ridding repaired and donated about 3000 used fridges to people in need, never once taking a cent.
In fact, he had a sign on his gate that read: “Ernie’s charity recycling, if you want to talk money, piss off.”
Whenever he signed his name, Ernie finished with GKN LLM, which apparently stood for “Graduate of Kenmore Nuthouse, Legally and Lawfully Mad”. It’s true that Ernie once spent time in Kenmore Psychiatric Facility, but nobody believes he was actually mad.
The plaque reads: “In giving, he inspires us to give.”
I love a mad old bloke.
When I was a kid, every so often my mum and dad would buy a whole side of beef and hire Buck West to cut it up and whack it in the freezer.
Buck had about two teeth left in his head, great yellowing tombstones that weren’t much good for anything more than grinning.
No matter what time of day Buck wandered into our kitchen, Mum always cooked him sausages and fried eggs, and we’d stand beside the kitchen table, transfixed, as he put on a show.
The old bushy would eat the sausages first, then slowly slide his knife under a whole fried egg and lift it gently from the plate, grinning his toothless grin.
Once he had the whole shiny bumnut (his word, not mine) balanced in mid-air, he would slowly rotate his wrist, turning the greasy white and gold disc towards his great gaping jaw.
With a delicate touch, he would slide the whole egg onto his tongue, theatrically withdraw the knife and swallow! Absolute gold.
And, if we were very very good, Mr West had an encore.
When the last shiny bumnut had disappeared into his gullet, Buck would gleefully raise his old singlet and reveal his huge, mangled, white belly.
Many years earlier, way out bush, Buck had watched his dog “Mutt” picking a fight with a boomer. When the old bushy foolishly intervened, the cornered roo slashed a gaping wound in his abdomen. Miles from town with no car and fewer choices, Buck simply unlaced his work boots and sewed himself together as best he could.
I loved hearing that story and always looked for a telltale shine in the old man’s eye when he got to the bit about the puppy that boot laces couldn’t save.
I don’t think Buck West had any children and I reckon he’d be long gone now, but he’ll never be dead to me.
I once saw an exhibition called Sydney Eccentrics, which I think included Ernie the Fridge Man.
I know it also celebrated a bloke who could imitate the sounds of more than 60 birds, and an old man who practised “pedestrianism” and once walked from Sydney to Parramatta in seven hours with a goat on his shoulders.
You don’t have to be a household name to be worth celebrating.
Tell me about your favourite character.
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