A Horse Called ‘Fingers’

Mark Reisinger • March 12, 2019

One of the problems of being an East Anglian immigrant in Australia is that the vast majority of all the other immigrants had an Irish background, and there remains a Celtic turn of mind. What this means is that my Anglo-Saxon linear thinking continually tries to keep up with the lateral-thinking mind that ties Celtic knots in its sleep. Oh, the propensity for gathering in crowds centred around some fiercely competitive sport that has to have alcohol as its medium of choice, is welcomed. Thinking outside the box too, is understood, and admired by me, but the residual hallucinogenic humour is something I have to work hard at.


For instance, I was looking around a friend’s new house and admiring big beams, glorious vistas and a very large bar fridge when he said, ‘Check the back door but watch the first step, it’s a doozie.’ I was pondering on what that actually meant, opened said door, and was confronted by a 200 metre drop! See, conversational tone vs instant death!


Another was when our whole family got involved with horse-riding because our daughter was of that age – you know what I mean. I would have said I was given a white horse to try out, only to be told, ‘There’s no such thing as a white horse. They are grey.’ A forty-year-old father has no chance in an argument with his ten-year-old daughter, Celtic or not. I asked the name of the horse and was told it was called ‘Fingers.’ To explain, they said he was float-shy, and in trying to get him into a float, one of the helpers had his finger bitten off by said horse.


‘Good grief,’ I exclaimed. ‘Did they manage to re-attach it?’


‘No, the dog ate it,’ was the reply. See, sandbagged by sideways thinking. The horse turned out to have the personality of a cardboard box.


Bear and Fox wedding

A Bear Wedding - Getting into the Groove

By Mark Reisinger • June 14, 2021
A phone call from my wife's eight-year-old niece echoed loneliness and confusion from the middle of arguing parents. 'What would you like to happen?' asked my clever, clever wife, Rebecca. 'I'd like Miss Mabel to marry Mr. Fox,' came the instant reply, hoping for some happy stability in her life When Rebecca left her library job, one present was a harlequin bear - animal-doll-collecting being her thing at that time. When in England on holiday, she'd found a 'Sew it and stuff it yourself' fox, which she sent to said niece, who also wanted Miss Molly, Rebecca's bear. An alternative, Miss Mabel bear, was found for her. Now this cry for help. Using Miss Molly as a model, Rebecca sewed the best bear wedding dress there ever has been, plus seven 'going-away' outfits. She also designed a red, satin-lined black cape and waistcoat for the groom and best man, all of which took six months and some very sore fingers. We flew to Sydney with all this paraphernalia and arranged to have a 'wedding' in Hornsby Park. A newspaper was contacted just in case they were interested in some 'good' news. Invitations were sent and 30 people came from near and far. A celebration was written, and read by the Wedding Celebrant, promoted for the day. The bride was escorted by Arabella on her eighth birthday, and Miss Mabel and Mr. Fox were duly married in the eyes of those present. We had taken all the animal dolls we had, as an audience, and there was magic right there in Sydney. The pictures in the Hornsby Advocate also provided some great 'street cred' for her upcoming new school.

My Geese and My Milkman

By Mark Reisinger • March 12, 2019
My geese, Honk and Pip, with Crash, Bang, Tinkle and Wallop, all with imaginary Jamaican accents, had settled in. Their admonishments of tail-wagging and eyeballing had modified to occasional complaints to the Management. Honk, the Patriarch, or Ganderarch maybe, and I had had some good conversations, about families. About the kids, ‘Dey know not’in’ Man, and dey t’ink dey know everyt’ing!’ About wives, ‘dey know everyt’ing Man, an’ t’ink I know not’in’! But I know what I know, Man!’ One morning, I was woken before dawn by a hell of a racket coming from the goose pen. I looked out of the window to see two dogs in the pen harassing the geese. I was out of the bedroom, along the veranda, across the lawn and won an Olympic ‘gold’ for fence-jumping. As if a whistle sounded, both dogs ran away at 180 o leaving me like a lighthouse on steroids. I checked on Honk. ‘Me good, Man! De missus do a good job wi’ de kids. You came to ‘elp. Me appreciate it, Man. T’ank you.’ ‘S’oright. You are de Goose, nah?’ I can give as good as I can get. At which point, I realized the sun was coming up and I was naked except for the mud from the creek, and the milkman was due. No ordinary milkman, I have to say! She had won prizes in beauty contests and had a voice like Fenella Fielding. When she said, ‘Good morning, Chris,’ full colour images of 1001 Arabian nights were projected on the screen in my head, and the depths and cadences would massage my spine without fingers.  I reached the outdoor shower in the nick of time and was indoors before she arrived - and my wife woke up. Tricky thing – timing! Sometimes.

My Reggae Geese

By Mark Reisinger • March 12, 2019
I had fenced off a small piece of land with chicken wire and star pickets, got an old chook-house delivered and bought seven bantam chooks. They were down to three before I discovered two very large and lumpy scrub pythons. My fear was such that I called the local zoo who sent a fearless keeper. She was 18, blonde, 60kg wet, and asked me to hold the bag! With adrenaline dribbling out of my ears, I watched her lift these snakes, tail-first into said bag, tie it and carefully place it in her ute and take off. Then I got a family of Toulouse geese, substantial and very individual. The parents were Honk and Pip, and the teenagers were Crash, Bang, Tinkle and Wallop. For whatever reason, my communication with Honk was in Jamaican patois. ‘All settled in?’ I asked as I spread food for them to glean. (Curious, the Jamaican newspaper is called, The Gleaner!) ‘Me de Goose, Man!’ he assured me. ‘Enjoy your time. If you need something, just Honk!’ I said unnecessarily. ‘Me keep me eye ‘pon you, Man!’ he said. They gave the family some entertainment, but I’m not meant to be a farmer, and the chance came for them to roam free on forty acres was too good to pass up, especially since I convinced the man to come and get them.  When first retrieved, they had wrecked the interior of my wagon with scratches and squirts. Honk had got between me and the steering wheel at one time, and for a powerful goose blocking my vision, ‘beaking’ my face, and creating a family cacophony to compete with ‘Death Metal,’ had now all been transferred to the purchaser. At last, a win, although they had cost a fortune in food, just to act as Guard Geese. Lessons learnt. You are not a farmer, Chris!