Rhonda Bracey: At Random

Late on 9 October 2008 at age 82, Glynn Watkins passed away.

Those few words give no hint as to the loss I feel at his passing and the loss I will feel for many years. Glynn, his wife Shirl, and children Peter, David, and Gina, have been close friends of my family for nearly 50 years. Glynn and his family was present at all our major (and many minor) family events, and we were there for many of his family events too. In their retirement, Glynn and Shirl travelled to places near and far with my parents, a ‘habit’ that started when they travelled to New Zealand together for a couple of weeks back in the 1960s, leaving us kids with our respective grandparents.

So why was Glynn such an important person in my life? Other than being a close family friend for nearly 50 years, Glynn was my primary school headmaster (Waroona District High School) for some six years back in the day when the boss of the school was called a ‘Headmaster’ and not a ‘Principal’. Even though I was only very young, Mr Watkins, as we always called him then, was an incredible influence on my life. He showed me what a true educator and teacher was. He was my mentor, a man I looked up to and respected deeply. Unlike many headmasters of the time, Glynn took an interest in both the good kids and the bad—and all those in between. Being called to the Headmaster’s office was not necessarily a fearful time (unless of course, you’d done something wrong!). He would call you in to praise or congratulate you on an achievement, and would come into the classroom to take an active interest in the teaching and learning program. Maybe he was just checking on the new teachers—no matter, it always felt like he was really interested in what we were doing.

Outside school, he was still ‘Mr Watkins’, but I saw him in a more relaxed light, kicking a football with us kids, singing ditties with his good friend Moir (“Mud, mud, glorious mud. Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood…” [Flanders and Swann]), enjoying a quiet beer, trying to avoid exposing his lily-white skin to the summer sun in the local swimming holes and dams, and enjoying a laugh. And what a booming and infectious laugh he had.

The year I started high school, Glynn and his family were transferred to Manjimup Senior High School. But the friendship between our two families ran deep, and many happy hours were spent at each others’ places over the school holidays. He became ‘Mr Watty’ to me then.

Years passed and I became a high school teacher. Without realising it at the time, I’m sure that Glynn had a big hand in my belief that teaching was an honourable and worthwhile profession. His sense of fairness and his clearly defined lines between what you could and couldn’t do, became part of my teaching strategy. I hope that I emulated the great teacher he was, even a small way.

Over the years, ‘Mr Watty’ became ‘Glynn’, and I found out how proud he was of my achievements and those of my sister. He had no hesitation in handing out praise, and it was always sincere, never hollow. Even after he had retired from education, I never heard him speak an unkind word about any students he had in his care for so many years.

So who was this Glynn Watkins? The Glynn that the world saw was an incredible man—a gentle man in the truest sense of the word. He was an educator, an innovator, a mentor, a role model. He was incredibly well-respected in education circles, and was given the honour of Principalship of a brand new metropolitan high school where he was able to pick and choose his own staff (this is not something that happens in West Australian government schools, even now). His staff adored him, and, in all my years in government schools, I never heard a bad word about him, even when in the company of teachers who had no clue I knew him well. In 1987, his services to education in Western Australia were honoured with a Medal of the Order of Australia (OAM).

Glynn was a man who was never just an observer of life, never just standing on the sidelines; instead, he grabbed life with both hands and threw himself into everything he did, whether it was education and teaching (a vocation—not just a job—for Glynn), his roses and orchids, his singing, his public speaking, his Lodge and Probus club, his RAAF, and all the other things I’m not even aware of.

Most importantly though, Glynn was a family man who willingly made time for family and friends, no matter how busy he was. He loved Shirl deeply and profoundly, and they were true soulmates for more than 50 years of marriage. He loved his kids and grandkids with a passion and was incredibly proud of them. He delighted in sharing stories of their lives. And boy, could Glynn tell a story!

He was a superb raconteur, with a razor-sharp wit. He could grab hold of a room with the power and projection of his deep voice, then keep everyone enraptured and laughing for hours on end, just as he did even on his 80th birthday. Yet he was never egotistical about his abilities and never jumped up to take a microphone just because it was there. And it wasn’t just his speaking voice—those Welsh genes of his were an asset to the Perth Male Voice Choir.

Glynn, you were a man among men. A role model, a mentor, and a friend. If I was able to have two Dads, you would have been my second one. You will be deeply missed by those who had the honour and pleasure of being touched by your wit and humour, your compassion, and your friendship. This State has lost one of its true educators, and a great man.

To paraphrase the lyrics of Gilbert and Sullivan, Glynn was the “…very model of a modern Major-General.”

My deepest sympathy goes to Shirl, to Peter and David (my childhood ‘brothers’), to my ‘little sister’ Gina, and all your families.

Glynn Watkins on his 80th birthday, with proud daughter Gina

Back in 2000 I edited a PDS (Product Disclosure Statement) of an MIS (Managed Investment Scheme) for a company in the business of creating Australian Blue Gum tree farms. I bought a share in that particular offering, knowing that it was speculative and that it would be some 8 to 12 years before I saw any return (if any) on that investment. Since then, the company that set up the tree farm has changed hands several times and ‘my trees’ are now managed by a company in Albany, on the south coast of Western Australia.

This company sends out information each year on their free “Growers Day”—a day where investors like me get updates on our trees, and get taken out to view various aspects of the operations. Everything from pollination, to watching the final wood chip pile being loaded on to a ship bound for the Japanese paper mills. I’d never been before, so this year we decided to go and make a weekend of it.

It was a fascinating day and I learnt a lot. I felt sad when I saw the effects of the harvesting, but was alternately glad too—glad that our incredibly rare native trees were no longer being used for wood chips. (NOTE: These Blue Gums are native to Tasmania and are bred especially for harvesting for wood chips. The land they are planted on is old, cleared pasture land, either leased from farmers or owned by the company. Native forests are not cleared specifically to plant Blue Gums.)

Some of the more interesting parts of the Growers Day:

• Flower pollen collection and pollination (you too can be Chief Bee, or the Chief Pollinator, if you wish! Or perhaps ‘Flower Emasculator’ is more your preferred job title…)
• Seed genetics—super mothers and super fathers combine to produce super children.
• Seed planting and propagation
• Soil, weather, and other conditions affecting growth rates
• Risks, such as fire, pests, and diseases
• Harvesting—where we learned that more costs go into the day a tree is harvested than in its entire life
• Debarking, chipping and transporting to wood chip stockpiles at the port
• Loading onto ships bound for Japan for making high grade paper, such as the outer layer of paper used on wine labels
• Current costs and returns per hectare, and current price per bone-dry tonne

So, will ‘my trees’ give me some return on investment? They should do, but with the current economic climate, who knows. We were assured that prices for wood products don’t fluctuate a lot… but they’ve said that about iron ore too. They aren’t due for harvest until around 2010, so I guess I’ll find out then.

Male parts are removed to leave a scar in the resulting seed pod, pollen is collected from other plants, then deposited onto female part using a small tube which protects female being pollinated by other pollen and other pollen-carrying agents such as bees, ants, and birds

A small stand of trees left behind after harvesting

Jaws of death - cut tree at base, collect 5-10 trees in 'arms' then lay them down ready for the debarking and chipping process

Jaws of death - close-up

Cut at the base

Trees awaiting debarking and chipping, and others awaiting their fate

Part of the 100,000 tonne wood chip stockpile

I had an interesting weekend – some good, some very sad. Will write on that later, perhaps in a day or so.

Meantime, we were coming back from where we’d been this weekend and I saw a dead kangaroo on the side of the road and said something like “dead boomer” or “big boomer”. My husband thought I’d said “Wilma”! So all afternoon on the drive back home we called every dead roo “Wilma”.

Guess you had to be there. But I think that “Wilma” will become part of our shorthand to each other from now on.

Resource companies are really strict about safety—as they should be. And because most are located in very remote areas of our big state and country, accessing exploration and mine sites requires a four wheel drive vehicle and driving on some very rough tracks… where they exist.

So it was no surprise that a resource company’s incident notification email is doing the rounds of staff at other resource companies. Here’s the essence—I think the picture tells the story!

Here’s what happened

Too bad if there was a passenger in the vehicle

I popped into the fabric store yesterday to see if my new machine might be here by the weekend in time for the workshop. It won’t, so I’ll have to borrow one.

While I was there, the owner said there was this guy who’d seen my Dragonfly quilt in the window (she’s displaying it in the store for a while) and wants to commission me to make a single bed quilt! She indicated that the price would be high—over $1000—but it seems he gave her his number for me to contact him anyway.

Arrgghh! I’ve got his phone number, but haven’t called him yet. I don’t have the time to make it—unless he’s prepared to wait 12 months—and I’m really not confident in my ‘art’ quilt skills as the Dragonfly was my first effort of designing and creating something myself. And if it had all gone pear-shaped, it wouldn’t have mattered. It seems he wants a particular butterfly, so I’m guessing that it’s for a daughter, especially as it’s a single bed size.

And the store owner also mentioned that some ladies were wondering if I did a lesson or workshop on how to make a quilt like that.

What have I started?