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By Patty Beecham, April 5, 2011 10:37 am

Four friends, rain, spas, yoga and friendship; all within the stunning O’Reilly’s Mountain Villas.

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By Patty Beecham, March 29, 2011 3:21 pm

High Tea celebrating mum’s 91st Birthday at Delizie’s Restaurant in Rockhampton, with John Cornwall and Gianni De Luca. Go there, you’ll love it, but book early, it’s always a sellout!
07 49 278 316

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By Patty Beecham, February 19, 2011 8:04 am

My client has a very involved and clever website, so I suggested that a personal ‘tour’ through would make it easier for his customers to follow.

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By Patty Beecham, February 19, 2011 7:53 am

I was recently asked to create a video showing step-by-step guide to making a vintage radiator core. Yes, I didn’t know what that meant either, but after a 3 day shoot, I know everything about it now, lol. Greg was a great talent, easily walking and talking his way through the involved process. Greg sells his authentic, handmade vintage radiator cores all over the world, and here is his first enquiry from Venezuela in the first week of being on YouTube.

Here’s the email:
Dear SIR, I had the oportunity to see the video rebuilding a 1929 BUICK RADIATOR very nice indeed, congratulations. I own a BUICK l930 PHAETON 5 places 30 40 right hand drive. I would like to rebuild the radiator, but as I live in VENEZUELA ,could it be possible to purchase just the HONEY COMB CORE, because it would be simpler. I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS.
1. DO YOU HAVE THE PATTERN OF THE CORE FOR THAT CAR.
2. IF NOT IN ORDER TO PURCHASE THE CORE WHAT DO YOU NEED.
3. WHAT WILL BE THE PRICE IN USD.
4.DO YOU ACCEPT CREDIT CARD PAYMENT.
5.CAN YOU GIVE AN ESTIMATED PRICE OF TO DELIVER THE CORE TO MIAMII
FLORIDA BEST REGARDS ANTONIO RAFAEL YANES

Saludos

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By Patty Beecham, January 20, 2011 12:36 pm

The Brisbane Flood of 2012

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By Patty Beecham, November 16, 2010 7:09 am

The Adventure of Falcons

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By Patty Beecham, November 15, 2010 9:45 am

I had a phone call late on Sunday afternoon.  I nearly didn’t take the call, as I was half asleep and the mobile was upstairs, but I bounded up to grab it before the caller hung up.  It was from Susan, the daughter of my late dad’s old regimental army buddy Dennis.  I photographed his funeral for her 18 months ago, creating a DVD to watch if and when she felt up to it, and also creating a photographic book for her family to keep.

At the time of Dennis’ funeral, Susan was a little distant; (perfectly understandable, funerals are very stressful) and although she wrote me a lovely note at the time, I felt that she didn’t have any intention of looking at the book, or the DVD.  That’s ok, we all come to things at different times.  She may have never wanted to look at either, but if she changes her mind, it’s always there for her, quietly waiting.  I am archiving her family history.

Anyway, she told me that “the whole idea of you photographing my father’s funeral didn’t sit well with her at the time, but now that 18 months have passed, she now looks at the album each week.” 

I love to look at the album, thankyou so much Patty.

“If I knew then what I know now, it would be so different” and then she went to apologise to me for being a bit stand offish to me at the time.  I’m a little used to this, I know I am the devil’s advocate sometimes, as I am sure some members of the families think “why would we want images of this?  Why do we want to remember a most painful day of our life? Why take photos at a funeral?”

Obviously I am at a certain funeral because other members of the family do want me there, and so I try to become invisible, not intrude on their grief, not to cry myself (but some days I do wipe a soft tear away, I am human too) and I always have to capture all the special moments of each Service.  The heads bowed in respect, the Poppy Tributes, the signing of the Condolences Book and so on. 

A long life well lived is a sad funeral, but not necessarily a tragic one. The family usually gather and regroup, and honour their darling beloved one, and share his wonderful life.  I love funerals like this, and I love to learn new things about someone I though I knew…for example Dennis was a great dancer, and loved to have friends around each weekend, pushing the lounge room furniture to one side, covering the floor with pops, and spending a few dreamy hours waltzing their wives around, arm in arm.  Such a beautiful memory.

Anyway, Susan tells me on my phone that she “loves to look at the album” and appreciated my taking photos of ‘the old RSL men, and the reunion buddies”.  I am so thrilled with her call I can only smile and thank her.

She tells me she hesitated in ringing me, but thought that she should, as she and her whole family just love the album so much, and really value it now.  From what I gather, they haven’t yet watched the DVD, but that’s ok, each to their own, and in time, who knows?  It’s there for them, when they are ready. 

I hang up and feel validated, and valued.  Thanks Susan for your call, it made my day.  I am so happy and pleased my work gives you and your family pleasure and memories.

~~~

I wrote about meeting Dennis here: Meeting Dennis

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By Patty Beecham, November 14, 2010 5:31 pm

I woke with such a lightness I needed the weight of Remembrance Day to ground me. Spring in Brisbane, with the sobbing clouds of night rain and a refreshed morning, fills my driveway with heavy Jacaranda blossoms. My car has been to a wedding overnight without me. I don’t bother to wipe the flowers away; there are too many of them and anyway, I love the effect of driving down Latrobe Terrace with traces of purple flying off my car like warp speed particles. It adds to the character of the suburb.

In today’s paper I can see there are a few Services I can go to. I am spoilt for choice, yet strangely I am compelled to visit Ashgrove. The last time I was there was for Carols by Candlelight 22 years ago, even though I drive past the central island park each day. A renewed Ashgrove Traders group and a spanking new Memorial within the park have motivated the locals to hold a Service, and so I drive there to be early for the 10.45am start.

The garden beds are full of blue lobelia and the colour is electric against the green of the grass. A woman walks towards me holding poppies for sale, she has one each side bent with wire around her glasses. She looks quite eccentric. I withhold my mirth and gratefully accept 2 flowers in exchange for a fiver.

And then the Service commences. Blimey! I am never late but it looks like I skidded here and only just caught the beginning. We gallop through the agenda, the MC is a local teacher from the Catholic Girls School nearby. He is reading a piece written by an ex-digger who is too unwell to be here in person, and he holds the paper up close to his eyes, squinting in the morning sun. We politely listen and mentally smooth his ragged speech into a sense of cohesion.

I take photos on my Blackberry, and send them to my mother’s email address. There’s an old man sitting, leaning on his cane, listening with effort to the thin voice of the announcer. To his right, stands the solid cenotaph, built stone by stone. I quietly take his photo. He stands shakily when the Ode is being read, and we all mouth Lest We Forget. Men replace their hats. Young girls dab their eyes.

We are then told that the minutes silence is to be held ‘as close as possible to eleven o’clock’ so we have a small interval. We’ve peaked very early. There is 20 minutes to fill. The small crowd filters over to read the new display of New Guinea information and photographs. It seems the 61st Battalion were very active after the war ‘cleaning up the Japs’ and black and white images of sweating bare-chested men and bogged army trucks stare back at me.

A motorcycle policeman gently purrs past us, glancing in on the crowd. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

Photographs of men in kilts (a Macdonald never yields!) are grouped together as part of an Ashgrove chapter of army men. A large group of small kids run barefooted beside them as they march through the main street, bagpipes blaring. You can imagine the noise and excitement! Some of the children look as young as four, only one wears a hat, and he looks a proper dandy. It’s not a kid’s hat, it’s a prissy one. I wonder who he grew up to be?

Soon it’s time to rejoin the Remembrance Service, before we forget why we are there. Whilst we look at our watches waiting for the next 3 minutes to pass, I take the newly arrived Westpac Bank managers photograph, with his young teller. We recognized each other when she tried to register my new credit card a few weeks ago. We exchange chitchat and soon the Poppy Lady is making a bee line to him.

I gently tease, saying it was so good to see the big banks putting their hand in their pocket, but he isn’t amused, and I regret my tackless jibe. He hands her a $20 note and assures her to keep the change. Her job is done! I offer to take their photograph on his mobile phone, and they both beam with poppies and civic duty smiles.

At 11am we re-commence the Service with the Last Post, except the sound doesn’t work from the IPod to the speaker. I am delighted at the use of new technology, it would be even better if it worked, but for now we have the Last Post and the one minutes silence all in one. Reveille.

Whilst we were looking and remembering and dreaming in the photographic display, an old soldier named Bob shuffled in and sat on the park bench, resplendent in army greens, tropical style. He even has a khaki pith helmet on, although I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone wearing a camouflaged pith helmet in WWII, but that’s just me.

At the end of the Service I place one of my poppies onto the cenotaph, leaving the other tucked firmly behind my right ear.

More photographs. A twenty-five pounder gun sits on the corner of the park, jutting it’s historic strength to the passing traffic. Look at me! I am powerful! It is the gun my father used in the war, and I have a large soft spot for it.

I shake a couple of the old men’s fat hands, and say a grateful Thank You.

I wait patiently to speak to Old Bill, but he is holding court with a young woman, pointing to each medal on his chest. “This is my fathers, this one is for General Service in World War II”, and he proceeds through each unpolished, chinking medallion.

As I drive past later, I can see he hasn’t moved from his bench.

There are still a core group of six people listening to him and giving him the attention he came for, lovely. That will make his day, the dress up was worth it. I touch the red poppy behind my ear, and press my foot to the accelerator.

Time to live the rest of the day.