WRITING GALLERY - APRIL 2025

THE LEGENDARY MRS OTTO
by Trevor S

You’re a legend, Mrs Otto, a true salt of the Earth;

a True Blue country lady, fair and square.

A genuine Aussie pioneer,

we tip our lids and raise a cheer

to our favourite gem, so precious and so rare.

You’ve inspired us, Mrs Otto, with your attitude to work,

beside your husband, Herb, sunrise to setting.

Trophies gained for milk and cream;

successes far beyond one’s dream -

you’re deserving of the accolades you’re getting.

All our memories, Mrs Otto: there are many we could share:

As midwife, you delivered half our school.

Your support for genuine causes,

generous deeds, have gained applauses.

Our local population thinks you’re cool.

Your scones and pastries, Mrs Otto, are the very best of fare.

You’re our champion, with your pickles and your jams

The creations that you’ve sewn,

the potted plants you’ve grown,

take pride of place, beside your smoke-house hams.

Your dexterity, Mrs Otto, as you play with arts and crafts -

eye-pleasing scenes and portraits clad your walls.

Hand woven bits and pieces,

for your nephews and your nieces;

coloured patches on your husband’s overalls.

Persistence, Mrs Otto, helped our community, to thrive.

The mayor and local members would agree.

You’ve fought for many changes,

like preserving mountain ranges,

to encourage travelling folk to come and see.

You’ve been visible, Mrs Otto. Everybody knows you well.

On committees you have been a driving force.

From your office bearers’ chairs

concerts, sports days, fairs -

you’d argue their promotion, ‘til you’re hoarse.

Your achievement, Mrs Otto, with a cockatoo that talked,

who screeched and swore, ‘til Nancy set him free.

Who joined a flock of local birds,

out on the farm of Lionel Jurds,

and asked him, ”Would you like a cup of tea?”

In retirement, Mrs Otto, you’re about to leave this town.

We wish you all the best, as you embark

on a quieter life, where you’ll be free,

enjoying bounty, from the sea.

Go well, dear lady, for here you’ve made your mark.

MRS OTTO GETS A NEW COCKATOO
by Melinda G

Mrs. Otto once had a feathered mate,
A cockatoo, it was bold and it was great.
Out on the farm, they’d chat all day,
They’d smile a lot and laugh away.

But times had changed - the farm was sold,
And Mrs. Otto was growing old,
She moved to a village, it was safe and neat
But - no pets allowed, no snout or beak.

So, with her ipad and her tech,
She built an AI bird to spec.
A cockatoo, with voice so gruff,
It certainly sounded real enough.

At first, it squeaked just as it should,
It amused her as she hoped it would.
But soon it took a bossier tack:
"You don’t need another snack!"

She reached for cake, it gave a caw,
"A glass of water, love—that’s the law!"
Each time she grabbed a sweet or two,
It shrieked, "No more crackers—none for you!"

Cream and cake. Mrs O loved the taste
But her bird was concerned for her waist.
Her avian friend, which she called Mo
Had become a pest and it had to go!

As she sat in her chair, eating cake,
She knew the action she had to take
So grabbing her trusty pink ipad
While not feeling remotely sad

She sat on the edge of her seat
She hit the key that said DELETE.
Now Mo was gone forever
She didn’t regret it, not ever.

And free at last, she ate with glee,
plates of cake and gallons of tea.
She ate so much her stomach bloated
Till finally— BOOM!—she exploded.

MARRIAGE WITH THE LOT PLEASE
by Robyn B

He wasn’t my first choice of course. But in the fair of face stakes my ranking wasn’t that high. 

So, at the local dance, as the chairs around me steadily emptied again, I took little regard to anything beyond the hand that was extended in my direction, offering salvation from the reoccurring plight of a wall flower. I had long been aware of the discreet conversations held behind cupped hands, and the knowing sympathetic glances.

But he wasn’t disagreeable to look at. Maybe a little on the short side if I was to be honest, but as we joined the others on the dancefloor, swaying and moving to the music, we both became more than our imperfect selves, disguised by life that was larger than who we were, or weren’t. We blended well together, and with our community, and slowly, slowly, we became an item. Marketable, by us both. I was aware that conversation didn’t go too far, but the companionship was safe and secure.

Did I want to be a farmer’s wife? Well, not particularly, but marriage was the only path that I wanted to walk down, the only one that I knew of. I had seen, and wanted, the gifts that such a journey could bring. I wanted a house filled with those lovely things. I had been studying the catalogues, the glossy magazines. Choosing what I liked and arranging them in my imagination. And a family later. All set behind a white picket fence, with a tree, oak I think, just off to one side. Pretty.

The wedding was the next stepping stone to that future, and the church that our parents had been married in was the natural choice. As was the white dress, regardless of circumstance, the suits, and the colour-coordinated friends that we arranged at our sides. We promised to continue the dance, the well-rehearsed steps that we started, not so long ago, at the town hall.

The dance became a formality after we moved in with his parents, and I quickly learnt to tiptoe and side step. I waited for them to move away, to leave our life to ourselves. I waited for the child to arrive. His parents did eventually hand the farm over, but by then it was too late to plant my oak tree. I never really got the picture right. The paint brush dried in my hand. The old lady had trained me well though and the farm didn’t miss a beat. I did what needed to be done. We both did. Every single day, just the two of us. I did rescue a cockatoo from the dirt road into town though. It had been hit by a car but, rehomed under the verandah, it too learnt to reinvent itself, and over the years we learnt to have some good conversations. It was excellent at deflection, parroting, providing meaningless retorts and perfunctory comments. A mirror of one of us, I’ll never really be sure who. But either way, the cockatoo got us right.

THE THREE OTTOS.
ROSIE, MAX AND COCKIE.
by Cindi B

DOWN ON THE FARM
by Valda R

Daylight was breaking as she pulled on her old overalls and akubra hat, and made her early morning trip down to the milking shed.

We followed a little later and perched on the top rail of the cow byre and watched as the cows with their swollen udders plodded in. We wrapped our scarves tighter around our faces as the steam rose from the hot urine mixed with the wet cow dung.

Such school holiday adventures down on the farm with our Aunty Betty. Advice to beware of the bloody rooster when collecting the eggs. Watching in horror as she chopped off the head of our favourite chicken which then continued to run around before being plunged into boiling water ready for plucking. Then when sitting at the old pine table that night being served roast chicken, my sister would say ‘it’s our survival’ so we tucked in.

‘Salt of the earth’ my mother would describe Betty Otto to her friends at her bridge class. My husband’s side of the family she would add, crinkling her nose.

Our sex education was learned at a young age on the farm, starting with the ‘bloody rooster’, the poor bleating lambs, and horror of horror witnessing the act of the bull that she had delivered in for a day. We were quite traumatised after that and couldn’t talk

about it for a while.

Aunty Betty was a tireless worker and had little time for pleasure, cows to milk and then out on the tractor. This was quite a thrilling, dangerous event for us as we perched, bumping along and holding on for grim death with little to hold on to, as she tilled the

fields.

By end of the day after the late afternoon milking, when we snuggled up around her large derriere we were so tired and asleep before our heads hit the pillow.

When the farm became too much for her and the family persuaded her to move to a retirement village at the seaside, we felt she would never fit in and would be heartbroken to leave the farm behind.

How surprised we were on our first visit to find that she was the main bingo winner, had checked out all the single men in the home, and was one of the most popular residents.

When she announced she was leading the residents choir ready to perform at the local church, which she said was a wonderful place of worship, our mouths fell open as we remembered the constant comments about the disgusting behaviour of the pedophile

priests and the rubbish written in the holy bible. We had to smile, when noticing the surprise on our faces, she just winked at us.

You’re one in a million Aunty Betty Otto.

MRS OTTO
by Julie S

Franz Otto was badly burnt when a canister of Agent Orange exploded in the next gully.  On being repatriated from Vietnam back to Queensland he was sent to a beautiful hospital-cum-rehab-cum-respite centre on the Capricorn Coast where the summers were hot and the winters dazzlingly warm. In no time he was well-recovered, but he did not want to leave for he had fallen head over heels in love with the beautiful, young English nurse Elizabeth. Elizabeth was born into the landed gentry in a village called Bingley and had come to Australia seeking adventure.  She was very well educated, fluent in French and German, played the piano like a professional and had a most beautiful singing voice.  Otto knew she was well out of his league, but he was done for.  He could not believe it when she agreed to go walking on the beach with him, and was overjoyed when their relationship developed into a precious love affair. 

He took her to visit his farm near Bililea as he wanted to see her reaction before asking for her hand in marriage. To his surprise she loved the farm right from the beginning and so their happy union began. She filled the house with books, paintings, music and endless singing.  A wonderful cultured gem in the back blocks of Australia.  When baby Otto turned four a neighbour gave him a baby cockatoo which had been hand-reared after it had been found alone and at death's door.  The bird, whom they named Polly, followed Elizabeth around like a shadow. 

She sat on the piano and danced when Elizabeth played and sang and squawked along with her when she sang.  Over time, and with much patience, Elizabeth taught her to sing the first verse of The Lorelei in German.  Otto, when he heard this singing, felt at times his heart would explode with the love he felt for Elizabeth and the kindness and love she gave to him and their family.

When a wild cockatoo started hanging around the house Elizabeth thought it would provide good company for Polly and so the stray was welcomed into the family.  This newcomer whom they named Peter turned out to be a bit of a challenge with its boisterous screeching and most interesting vocabulary.  Out of no-where they would hear Peter screech “would you like a cup of tea”, or “snake, snake” which would frighten the devil out of those nearby.

Eventually, the effects of Agent Orange caught up with Otto, and Elizabeth was left to run the farm alone.  The children left home to go to university, leaving Elizabeth with Polly the cultured cockatoo and Peter the rough-nut.  The three of them got along very happily until one day when Peter was screeching “snake snake”, the brown  snake which was sunning itself on the chair on the verandah,  attacked Elizabeth, biting into her leg and  leaving plenty of venom behind. In spite of her careful administering of first aid and as she sat watching the sun go down  over the farm she had loved so much, she faintly heard Polly sing the Lorelei while Peter screeched “want a cup of tea?”

MRS OTTO
by Robyn B

Poor little wallflower

Didn’t stand a chance,

Gathering dust on the bottom shelf

Not a second glance.

So when someone’s hand strayed too close

She held on very tight.

And though he tried to shake her

He finally saw the light.

With some prowess in the kitchen,

A feigned interest in the land.

A visit to the hayshed

And Mrs. Otto got her man.

THE AMAZING MRS OTTO
by Malcolm W