Show time

Every town and city of any pretension has its show, but I need to distinguish ‘the show’, which is the Royal Agricultural Society's ‘Easter Show’ from other smaller imitations around the state.  I will say more about the ten-day Easter Show later: first, let's look more closely at the rural show, for most country towns of any size will have one, and these were the fore-runners of the ‘Show’ that everybody knows and loves today.

There is an established circuit for the country shows, and the show folk follow the same route each year, with hoop-las, shooting galleries (if there are prizes to be won, the sights on the rifles will be bent), darts games, mirror maze, hot dog vans, fairy floss (pink spun sugar) machines, and all manner of ‘try your luck’ routines.  And since they only come once a year, there is always a market for their offerings.

These carnival attractions are just the icing on the cake, to use an apt metaphor.  To country folk, the assorted craft competitions are far more important.  They compete to produce the best sponge cakes, iced cakes, plates of cakes, painting (on canvas or on plates), carving, wooden toys, wood turning, flowers of every kind, flower arranging, embroidery, knitting, scones, bread in a variety of forms, giant and gigantic vegetables, jewellery and art metalwork, leather work, pottery, sculpture, bookbinding . . . the list goes on for longer than I can talk.

Then there are the prizes for cut flowers, where the local Dahlia specialist can display all of his (or her) prize blooms, or those that have survived the opposition's sneaking around at night to lob buckets of snails into the specialist's garden.

This is a serious business to the locals, and whole families seek to dominate certain sections in the arts and crafts pavilion.  Outside, others are equally competitive in the pet shows and pony shows, or in the displays of livestock, but in the main ring, something different is going on.  There are organised groups who follow the shows, just to take part in the equestrian events.  For weeks, months even, they follow the circuit, riding their horses in every possible event, and competing with the few local hopefuls who mostly enter only at the lower grades.

The Grand Parade at Sydney's Royal Easter Show.

Depending on the showground, which usually surrounds the local football field, there may also be trotting races, where a horse tows a skeletal gig (hardly more than two light shafts, a seat and two bicycle wheels) around a track.  In a few towns, they may even organise the local picnic races to coincide with the show.

The most spectacular event at the show is always the woodchop events.  The men who enter these ‘races’ have spent their lives working on hardwood, and they have axes which are razor sharp.  The logs they have to chop are usually about a foot (30 cm) through, and they are all seasoned gum.

One type of event involves standing on a length of log, mounted on a metal stand, and chopping through the log, chopping out two V shapes between the axeman's feet.  This simulates the work of cutting a fallen tree into haulable lengths, but the more exciting event simulates actually felling a tree.

The woodchop ring, between heats.

Gum trees usually have a broad buttress at the base, so timber-getters always cut through a tree several metres above ground level.  To get there, they cut into the tree at about shoulder height, insert a plank, swing up onto it, cut a second plank-hole, insert a second plank, clamber up onto that, and so on.  In the show event, the logs are set vertically in the ground, and the wood choppers have to lop off the top section of the log, after they have climbed up to it.

Up the 'tree'.

To make life more interesting, the events are run on a handicap basis, with the ‘gun’ axeman left stranded on the ground, sometimes until the first starter is up in the air, and almost halfway through his log, almost ready to clamber down and re-set the planks to complete the cut from the other side.  This means that the finish is usually very close: it is also spectacular.

Even in ‘the bush’, the life style that is represented in the shows is one that has passed us by.  Timber getters do not chop trees with axes when they can use chain saws and bulldozers to bring the trees down faster, and these days, there are even special chain saw races, cutting three discs from a six-inch length of 18 inch hardwood log.  Horses are only kept so people can learn to perform on them — only the working dogs are as they always were, and I will say more about them some other time.

These days, they'd use s chainsaw...

But however rural life has changed, we conveniently ignore all that at show time, especially at the serious show time when the bush comes to the city for the Royal Easter Show, and the city visits the bush for a day or so.  There are more important things to worry about.

For a parent, survival is what counts at the Easter Show.  In the weeks leading up to the Show, men will discuss it over a beer in the pub, offering each other handy hints.  ‘Take an extra handkerchief’, growls an old veteran.  His younger companion asks if this is to keep off the dust.

The old man is patient.  ‘No, to put through the handles of yer show bags.  The kids want 'em, but they won't carry 'em, and the handles cut yer hand somethin' awful.’  After this long speech, he draws again on his glass.  He has done his share, paid his dues, and if he goes to the show now, it will be on one of the quieter days when the crowds are smaller, and the children fewer.

The young, of course, can survive almost anything.  It is the parents who are under the greatest strain.  First, getting their young ready, into public transport (those who drive to the Show are fools or masochists), then keeping their young together, raising the cash for fast food, carnival rides, sideshows, sample bags and more, finding the lost young, sitting calmly in the police tent, eating ice cream and chatting to the duty police, all of these take their toll.

This, of course, is the time, when the parents will power is under stress, that the young decide they would like a further nasal assault, and demand to be taken to see the animals.  Determinedly, they haul their elders past cattle, pigs, poultry, goats and sheep of many kinds, alpacas, deer, more cattle, through to the areas where small cage birds, cats and dogs are displayed.

On the lawns near the Dog Pavilion, show dogs will be given a last-minute fluff up before they are paraded past the judges who are world-weary cynics, expert themselves in the art of fluffing up, who see discerningly through to the points that will make an animal the ‘best of breed’, or better still, ‘champion of champions’.  In the cattle pavilion, enthusiastic workers steady their cows while they shave their coats to make them look all the more perfect.

This is what the show is all about, for a highly-rated animal at the Royal will command greater fees for its stud performances or litters.  Over in another stall, beef cattle are examined before being slaughtered so the beef can be internally inspected.  Over Show Week, prestigious butchers will display the ribbons won by dead cattle in their windows, telling all and sundry that they have paid over the usual rate to buy highly-regarded meat.

The regions of the state compete against each other with displays of produce, artistically arranged to paint a picture of their region, and the city folk will wander past, giving this scant regard.  On the last night of the show, canny students will gain entry at concession rates, and buy as much of the produce as they can, or they did when I was a canny student . . .

In the main arena, there will be riding displays, races of various sorts, several grand parades when large numbers of animals are led out for a confusing and noisy breath of fresh air, but for children, there are two main attractions: over-priced show food and exorbitantly-priced show bags.

In my youth, a show bag was a sample bag, which came almost for free, and which contained a few  samples, plus promotional items — a ruler with a bank's name on it, or some other ‘useful’ item.  Now a show bag is crammed with cheap toys, recycled comics, and other trivia.  To satisfy consumer legislation, a list of contents and prices must be placed on display, but there seems to be little relationship between the prices shown and any independent assessment of true value.

That does not matter.  The old man in the pub was right when he said to carry a spare handkerchief, for most of the show bags turn out to contain items which are essential to some small person's continuing street credibility, and so they must be bought.  Then with the money all gone, a family can retreat to the ring, to the central arena, to watch the show which is on offer each night.  These usually involve spectacular stunts, but the rodeo events are equally exciting to most.

These events have lost their excitement for me since Henry Cruciform told me about how Crooked Mick rode four bulls at one time.

It's true, you know: Henry never lied.

The Microscopist's Mate, part 5 of many

Just for the record, all of what you find here, and in the other blogs in this series, is now available in fuller detail in my e-book Looking at Small Things.  Go to this link to find out more about how to get the free low-resolution copy, or the cheap high-resolution version: I'm a professional writer, so I like selling books, but I'm also a professional educator, so I like sharing ideas.

There's a similar free or cheap deal on offer for my Playwiths ebook as well, and to see what else I have been doing (LOTS!), go to this link.

Here are the links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4.

Sorry about the delay, but I have been busy having fun, like this study, where I was looking at stomates, the little pores on leaves that plants breathe through, and which you can see above. Now I have started writing up.

You need some suitable leaves, clear nail polish, clear sticky tape, a piece of glass like a microscope slide, a device and a Go Micro.

Risks and dangers: Spillage or sniffing of the nail varnish. If you have never mentioned Material Safety Data Sheets before,  search on <MSDS acetone>. Microscope slides are fragile, and cuts are possible.

Stomates (or stomata) are pores that are mainly found in the lower surfaces of leaves, and they let carbon dioxide in and oxygen out. They also let water vapour escape, so plants need to control their stomates, which are very tiny. One of the best is a common garden plant with purple leaves, known as Tradescantia pallida.

Old botanists say it has large and clear stomates, ones that can be seen with a 30x hand lens. The stems break off easily, and when pushed into the ground, they take root.

This is what the plant looks like.

The flowers of Tradescantia pallida.

The lower surface of most leaves will be rich in stomates, and while they require a good microscope to see them well, we can take a cast of a leaf surface and look at that. All you need is some clear nail polish, some sticky tape, a microscope slide and a way to light the slide from below.

Stomates are very small, about 0.05 mm (¹/₂₀ mm) across, so you won’t see them with the naked eye, but once you know what you are looking for, you can see them with a good hand lens, just as closely-packed dots. The cast, by the way, is usually called “a peel”, and in my youth, they were made with stuff called collodion.

Now, there’s a simpler way, but I will take you through some of my steps, including some false ones.

Choose a leaf: most leaves work, but ones without hairs on their lower surface are probably best, and if you can find that purple Tradescantia anywhere, get a leaf of that.

Then, using a small amount of clear nail polish, paint a thin layer on the lower surface, no more than 1 cm wide and 3 cm long (size isn’t really important). Leave this to dry for about 10 minutes, then press a strip of clear sticky tape down over the nail polish. I used ivy first, then a Camellia and a bay leaf. 

It is worth noting in passing that with a bit of effort, you can break a Camellia leaf in the same way as breaking a piece of onion (I'll get to that some other time), to yield a small scrap of real epithelium, the leaf’s surface layer.

The bay leaf was better. Those tiny dots are stomates, and the first picture below is like the unconvincing view from a hand lens, taken through the Go Micro with no digital zoom.

The next one is at full digital zoom with the Go Micro: this is a bit more convincing!

So you can see these stomates with the Go Micro, but to show you what is visible with a professional level microscope, there is a shot on the next page of a peel from a bay leaf, taken at x100, though the lower right inset is at x400. Once you see this, the lower magnification views will make sense. Each stomate looks like two fat sausages (the guard cells) lying side by side: when they curve around, the stomatal pore opens and gases go in and out.

Two views of a peel from the lower surface of a bay leaf, at x100 and x400 (inset).

As I said, the best plant (and certainly the best I have found so far) for this exercise is Tradesacantia pallida, a purple garden favourite with purple leaves, and one that grows easily from cuttings. Here is what you can see with the 60x at two magnifications:

Stomates of Tradescantia pallida, seen with the 60x.

The rig for this: the slide sat on jar with a light source and a diffusing film, my phone sat on top of the two boxes and the lens rested on the microscope slide.

The same slide, seen through a high-end microscope, at 40x, 100x and 400x

Each stomate is made up of two guard cells: these are the “lips” of the “mouth”, but in Tradescantia pallida, there are two other cells, one at each end, making a rectangle. It is important to note this, because it turns out that you can see the stomates on the plant’s actual leaf with the Go Micro, if you know what you are doing! The next two shots are looking at the actual leaf surface, with the gadget.

This view is looking at the leaf itself, with reflected light. The stomates are the pale square shapes.

Here, the stomates are very visible at x60, but you can even see them, once you know what you are looking for, with a 10x handlens. I think that’s neat!

Penguins

Penguins always fascinate, waddling on land, flying gracefully under the water, and my son's young friend  was rather awe-struck when I told him there are live penguins in Sydney Harbour.  They nest near his home, hiding under rock shelves on the shore, and hissing if you approach them on land.  Their breath stinks of fish, and they are clumsy on the land, but they are delightfully graceful ‘flyers’ under the water.  But you have to know where to look for them, and what to look for.

A fairy penguin is also called a ‘little penguin’, but not around Sydney.  We see the occasional rockhopper and fiordland penguin here, but fairy penguins are our common ones.  As a boy, I used to try chasing penguins in a dinghy, but it was impossible, they were just too fast.  On land, it is another matter, and now penguins can only nest where the feral cats and foxes cannot get to them.

Last time I was at Taronga Zoo, the zoo penguins were being herded into an enclosure for the night as we left, to make them safe from the zoo's feral foxes. The ones on the coasts around Manly are guarded by volunteers.

Their name is Welsh (pen = head, gwyn = white), but this puzzles me, for penguins never go north of the equator.  Recently, somebody told me that the original penguin is the auk of the Atlantic.  But while the name comes from the Welsh for ‘white head’, all penguins have black heads.  The auks are real ‘penguins’, for the guillemot has a whiter head in summer, the puffin (very Welsh, that one) is almost entirely made up of a white face.

Another puzzle: why do so many penguins have flashes of yellow to offset the severe black-and-white patterning? The black and white pattern would make them less visible to predators, but yellow makes no sense at all.  It must be their resemblance to waiters that makes them so attractive, and I find it interesting that cartoony penguins never show any signs of yellow at all.

Our Eudyptula minor is the smallest of them all, found only in southern Australia and New Zealand.  They weigh about 1 kilo (2.2 pounds) and stand 30 cm high.  They are dark blue to black on the upper body and white on the lower part.

The Australian sub-species is distinguished from the New Zealand ones by having a margin of white feathers on the tail and on the rear edge of each flipper, though penguin experts can be easily persuaded to brawl about just how many species and sub-species there are.

Fairy penguins come ashore after dark, showing their infinite variety of calls, ranging from guttural growls to loud screams and noisy trumpeting.  They live for about 7 years and some keep the same mate for life.  They lay two white eggs in spring, the male and female share incubation, and the chicks are helpless for 2-3 weeks after hatching, needing brooding.

After that time, both parents leave the nest to collect food.  By 8 weeks, the chicks have lost their down and grown waterproof plumage that they need to go to sea themselves.  They mainly hunt schooling fish and squid in surface waters.

They can see both above and below water (not an easy trick!), there is no external ear visible, but they communicate a lot by sound, the flippers are NOT waterproof, the feet are webbed with three claws, and there is an oil gland above the base of the tail.  Without this, they would not be waterproof.

The gland produces liquid waxes (honest!) when massaged with the beak.  The adult birds undergo an annual moult in late summer when they change over all their plumage, and this keeps them on shore for two or three weeks, while they live on fat reserves, sometimes dropping to half their starting weight.

Most people compare penguins to waiters in evening dress, but I relate more to the Antarctic ones which leap up out of the sea onto the ice as they come ashore.  When they are ready to go out to sea again, these penguins all wait on the edge of the ice for somebody else to go first, fearing the leopard seals that are lurking beneath the ice floe.

In my many years of work as a bureaucrat, that image of the penguins standing, shuffling and jostling, was constantly with me, though I could never explain why.

They were just, I would say, going with the floe, and getting cold feet — and that is why bureaucracies fail, at least until a few surrealist anarchists land among them.