After a night of good conversation, wine, and moonshine, the early morning flight came too early.

The alarm went off at four o’clock in the morning.  Changing quickly and preparing for my flight to Sydney for a customer visit, I called my family with the help of my computer.  Hoping to see them sitting down and enjoying a nice Thanksgiving meal (Thursday, Thanksgiving Day back in the states…Friday morning for me), I was disappointed to see them working on projects.

“Snow storm.” My brother said matter of factly.  “Dad couldn’t make it.  Margaret and John weren’t going to make it.  Rescheduled it for Sunday.”

Ah yes, snow storms, the bane of holidays on the upper great plains.  A turkey will keep.  Stuffing can be prepared later.  Pumpkin pie can be kept in a cool dry place.

But you can’t fight Mother Nature.

With a quick call to Dad, who was creating new Thanksgiving traditions of his own, “I’m watching football, eating a steak, and even watched the whole Macy’s Day parade – I’ve never done that before!” he said with some enthusiasm.  “It’s not a bad parade.” He added with a bit of reflection.  Wishing him a Happy Thanksgiving, I headed for the airport.

Aside from some mechanic problem that prompted me to get bumped from my flight with eighty other passengers that got me into Sydney almost an hour and a half later then expected…and almost late for my customer meeting, it was a good day – with a fantastic and wide ranging conversation with the customer as we travelled from Sydney, north towards Newcastle and through the scenic Hunter Valley.

Then, it was back to Sydney, back to the airport, and back on board, this time, heading towards the Western Australian capital, Perth.

Looking down over the landscape, it was a patchwork of fields, rivers, and streams with farmsteads scattered across the lush green fields.  As my eyes closed and I drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the events of the last two days, the vision of the farm fields below brought be back to the farm of my youth, to a Thanksgiving table groaning under the weight of Mom’s cooking, to a special place filled with family and friends.

It was a pleasant nap.

 The Christmas season for us as kids just weren’t complete without some of the classic phrases of our youth, “You better be careful or Santa won’t come!” or “It’s Advent, what are you doing to prepare?” or “Blow damn it blow!”

I had best explain that last one.

You see, each of us kids were in band, and with the exception of my youngest sister, we all learned the intricacies of high school band under the tutelage of Mr. Kuhn.  And Mr. Kuhn was a great band director.  We knew he was great because kids wanted to play musical instruments.  With class sizes of fifty to seventy kids, Mr. Kuhn could field a band of almost 120 students in the varsity band.

We would play two concerts a year, the spring semester final, and the infamous Christmas concert (no holiday here).

The prep work for the Christmas concert would start well in advance of Christmas.  Trust me, it was hard to do a Bing Crosby Christmas Medley when it is ninety degrees outside, but the prep work was worth it when the temperatures were sub zero and there was a solid layer of snow on the ground.

And boy did we prepare.

For the fifth and sixth grade band, it was usually something pretty straight forward, being smaller in numbers, usually only about sixty students strong, we would do the old standby’s a John Philip Sousa March, some classical piece, and a John Philip Sousa March.

For the seventh and eighth grade band, it was about the same, a John Philip Sousa March, a classical piece, and a Christmas medley, usually more technically advanced then the younger band.

For the varsity band, which would consist of ninth through tenth graders, the music was inevitably more technically complicated, but would usually consist of a John Philip Sousa March, some classical piece, some contemporary piece, and a Christmas medley.

If only John Philip Sousa would have written a Christmas March, we could have killed two birds with one stone.  But as luck would have it, he wrote Stars and Stripes Forever on Christmas Day in 1896, so I think as a tribute to him, all of our marches ended up sounding just like Stars and Stripes Forever, or as Mr. Kuhn used to sing above the din of the hundred instruments trying to play in time, “Be kind to your web footed friends, for a duck maybe somebody’s mother…”

Trust me, it was funnier when we were in high school.

Not that Mr. Kuhn just sang along with us, he would play along with us, instruments or not.

“Dang it trumpets, it’s a staccato!  I want ‘Toot!  Toot! Toot! Toot!’ not ‘toooot.  Toooot.  Toooot.  Toooot.’”

Or he would point his finger back at the trombones and say the infamous, “Blow DAMIT!  BLOW!”

All the while throwing out one liners, zingers, and helpful points and encouragement.

Somehow, someway, by the time the Christmas concert rolled around, Mr. Kuhn would have worked his magic and gotten one hundred mostly tone deaf kids and gotten them playing in unison.

The night of the concert, the cars would pile in from the countryside.  The students would nervously be pacing in the band room, and Mr. Kuhn would lead each band one by one, without the vocal cues, without the exhortations, with nothing but the very visible non-verbals – sometimes even mouthing “Blow damit!  Blow!”

When all was said and done, Mr. Kuhn tired from jumping around the podium would finally let his hands rest.  The wafting sounds of the brass would echo off the gym rafters, and nothing could be heard but the collective sigh of everyone in the room – to yet another flawless performance – the parents, friends, neighbors, and community members would come to life and give us the standing ovation that they had done for all our brothers and sisters before us.

The miracle of the Christmas season?  The wonders of Mr. Kuhn?

Probably more the latter.

 This year marked my second Thanksgiving away from home.  It proved to be much more difficult.  The siren song of home, family and the comforts of my youth were calling me back to the northern plains of Minnesota.  The starkness of the barren plains at the start of the icy grip of winter is not one that normally beckons people – but the warm memories of family and friends and time gone by are only made more radiant against the bleak backdrop.

But I was in Melbourne, Australia, with no chance of going home.

Earlier, in a festive mood, I’d invited a fellow American over for supper on Thursday night, a little grilling amongst friends to ease the memory of home.

Through the week, I’d wish I’d never extended the invite.  The joy of the season had left me.  With a bit of a shudder, I opened the email asking if the invite still stood.

A part of me said no, but another part, a part of me that rooted in the belief that we must serve each other, that hospitality is part of our core human standards, wouldn’t let me say no.  That and the memories of our home being a way station at times for the great uncles and aunts and friends who had no other place to go.

I had to do my part.

But it was still hard to get into the spirit.

The night before, I rushed around, shopping and cleaning.  The shopping wasn’t concluded until the next morning with a dash to Victoria Market for a few final items.  The cleaning wasn’t completed until minutes before the first guest arrived Thanksgiving night.

It didn’t go well from the start.

The small grill on my patio was wafting smoke through the doors and right to the smoke alarm.  The next door neighbors (one of which is president of the building association) kept on poking their head around the divider reminding me that any fire calls were for my account…and that open flames were not allowed on the balconies…

Eventually, the pork roast ended up in the oven, the lamb cutlets ended up being cooked in a frying pan, the asparagus was greasy, and the wild rice…well, the wild rice was done to darn near perfection.

To make matters worse, due to family emergencies and travel difficulties, the guest list went from six to four.

In the end, how did it end up?  Just about right.

Oh, it won’t take the place of family, but sitting there, gnawing on the lamb, cutting into the pork, and enjoying the company of good friends just couldn’t be beat.

“I thought a traditional Thanksgiving was turkey, and dressing, and pumpkin pie?” One of the Australian guests said.

Thinking about it for a minute, I wiped my mouth and said, “The original Pilgrims were fed off the fat of the land.  They invited the local people in to celebrate with them.  They used what they had.  It’s not about the food.  It is about the people, the spirit, the blessings.”

In the back of my mind, I thought too about the Pilgrims, who dug three graves for every house they build that first year.  Make the best of what you have – and in all things be thankful.

 ”Mark!  Are you awake up there?”

I really didn’t intend to be, but the alarm had gone off as it did every day about five o’clock in the morning.  It takes me a while to wake up, so a five o’clock radio alarm is perfect for a five-forty-five departure to the barn.  It dawned on me (pun intended) – it was Thanksgiving morning.

“Mark!  Can you come down here!”

Mom was calling and rousing me from my half-slumber, with an urgency in her voice.  Something was wrong. 

Climbing over my still slumbering brother in bed next to me, and trying to find my clothes in the predawn darkness of the late November morning without waking the other brother in the bed next to ours, I finally managed to make it downstairs.

“Happy Thanksgiving Mom!” I said happily through my yawn.

Happy Thanksgiving!” Mom replied looking over her shoulder from the kitchen sink with a smile as she wrestled with the giant turkey that was soon to be sitting in the roasting pan next to her.  “I think you caught a mouse.”

Mom hated mice.  Mice and spiders.  Spiders were the bane of the summer months.  Mice, which liked the warmth of the house as the temperatures outside dropped continually colder, were the scourge of the fall.  As a result, I got fifty cents for every mouse that I managed to catch.

“Really!” I said with some excitement.  “How do you know!”

Just then, the quiet of the morning was broken by the frantic squeeking, sliding, and banging of a live mouse caught in a trap and frantically trying to get out.

Mom jumped, splatters of turkey goo went flying.

“Because of those sticky traps that we bought.”  She said with some exasperation.

Only the day before, she had brought home sticky trips, pans of super sticky glue that would trap any mouse that put a tail on it.

“It seems to work!” I said with glee.

Mom slowly looked over her shoulder with a glance that said, “get that thing out of my kitchen right now or you will never taste Thanksgiving dinner.”

Following the sounds of the scurrying (he covered quite a distance), and picked it up and disposed of him in the darkness of the Minnesota morning.

I still had time to spare before Dad and the brothers would be down for chores, so with a glass of milk and koblaha, I sat by the kitchen table as Mom continued to work on the bird and prepare other odds and ends for the feast to come.

We talked, laughed, and told stories.  As much as much time as we spent as a family, those quiet times with just Mom or Dad were pretty precious for us five kids.

As we bowed our heads that Thanksgiving Day, each of us had things to be thankful for – a good harvest, a good meal, good friends, good family – but I was particularly thankful for a little mouse that caused a five am wake up call.

 This time of year growing up was always that in between period, and not because it fell between Halloween and Thanksgiving, it was that last gasp of fall, as winter slowly moved in on the northern plains.

And we had to get ready.

The days were getting shorter and shorter.  Daylight reaches its minimum on the first day of winter in late December, but by November, it was already dark soon after getting home from school (and usually only shortly before leaving for school).  We would usually experience our first snow sometime in early November, but with the days still managing to climb above freezing, it usually parted from us by Thanksgiving…if we were lucky.

Regardless, with the fields frozen over, there was little work that could be done in the fields.  With the days short and the temperatures struggling to reach above freezing, that meant little could be painted.  And with a threat for yards of snow coming, it made little sense to fix fence for spring.

But that didn’t matter to us, there was still plenty of work to do, just getting ready for winter.

Those three weekends in November between Halloween and Thanksgiving were usually a flurry of activities.  Usually one was reserved for cleaning calf pens.  In the dead of winter, you didn’t want to clean out calf pens.  Though warmer then outside, the manure would usually be frozen into chunks beneath the warm straw and impossible to move….and it was better then contending with it during the heat of summer.

A second weekend was usually spent getting the shed, garage, and basement in order.  A good blizzard could lay in anytime starting about the middle of November, if that were the case, it might be the last chance to move garbage out to the waste heap or sacks and bags to the burn pile.  We would spend a day moving the loader tractor from building to building, moving out the accumulated feed sacks, twine bundles, salt bags, soda boxes, and any other combustibles to move out to the pile in the back pasture.  Anything left from the smudges of August was fair game – and needed to be, this would be our last chance to burn until the snows melted in March when the window opened up briefly before the ground thawed and the path would again be unusable.

The third weekend was usually reserved for the last of the items, the final preparations before winter struck.

Dad would walk around like a general, preparing for an attack: “Mark – bring me those barn windows from the lean-to, those back two – we need to fix them.  Jaime – do you know where the magnetic heater is?  We need to find it.  Jack – have you finished changing oil in the loader tractor?  Don’t want to mess with that when its negative forty below.  Have you guys made sure that those shovels down by the garden were put in the shop?  Who was going to take in those oil cans by the shed?  We need to cover your mother’s rose bush up by the house too.  I got those new barn cleaner parts – let’s get in that new reverse curve today….”

By Thanksgiving, and if we were lucky, by the time of the first big snow, the farm would be buttoned up tight and ready for the onslaught that was sure to come.

 In the big scheme of things, three years isn’t all that long.  It is half a term of a US Senator.  It is the longest I’ve lived in one spot since I left home (nineteen years ago!).  It is my tour of duty in Australia.

But it also happens to be the number of years that this website has been up and running.

Over the course of those three years, I’ve visited eight countries, moved half way around the world, written almost seven hundred (700 posts) about a range of people and topics and experiences.  Almost half have been about the things I’ve learned and the people that have influenced me so far in my life. Almost half have been about the experiences that I’ve had in travels and adventures (and some misadventures).  A portion have been writings of faith, and doubt, and the inspiration from our Lord to help make it through this hectic world.

A major part is the primary guest that has graced my sight is my brother Tom and his writings from the Iowa newspapers so long ago.  I’ve tried to get at least two a week out there on the site, and those also number almost three hundred.

I haven’t quite averaged one a day, more like five a week, over the last three years.

Mike Maxwell, the man who designed the sight and continues to host it, as well as support me and inspire me (a true entrepreneur) didn’t really think that I’d keep it up this long.  He didn’t believe that I’d go through with it – how could I write this much crap?  But he and his wife Linds continue to be some of my top fans.

Did you know that there is even a mock website?  Created over a steak dinner and too much wine in my basement, good friends Pat, Geoff and Jeff invested twenty bucks EACH to start and create http://www.thatcountryboy.com/…. A site aimed to both mock me (how much of a country boy can I be living in cities) but also to support me (you aren’t looking for that country boy…you are looking for http://www.thiscountryboy.com/)

Did you also know that almost nine thousand people have visited this sight?  Today, over one hundred a week average so far this year spending an average of two minutes per visit with over two thousand seven hundred of them from Minnesota.  Visitors from ninty-two countries, but the bulk of them being from the United States.

Almost three thousand people have found it thanks to Google.  Almost a thousand finding it searching for ‘country boy’ and over three hundred by trying to find out ‘how to be a country boy.’  Surprisingly, the seventh most popular search that directed people to my site was one for ‘cow salve’ (thanks to one of brother Tom’s columns).

I hope the people that search for ‘habenarro hero,’ ‘aussie footy players,’ and ‘puke machine’ got what they were looking for.  As well as the other nine hundred and some odd searches that directed people to my sight.

To the hundreds of ladies that searched for ‘finding a good country boy,’ ‘where are the country boys,’ ‘I need a country boy,’ ‘I want a country boy,’ ‘where are the good country boys’ – I’m still single.  To the three ladies that searched for ‘naked country boys,’ you came to the wrong spot to get pictures of that…and I’m gonna have to get to know you before we even talk about a huggin’ and a kissin’.

To those that searched for ‘how to be a country boy,’ I hate to spoil it for you, but it doesn’t take that much.  Faith, Ambition, Reverence, Morality, Honesty, Obedience, Service, Excellence are a good place to start.

It should come as no surprise that the first two posts on this site were one on the importance of friends and family, and the other one on our need to be thankful.  Those are themes that should never get old.

To all of those that come back week in and week out to see my latest memories, musings, and guffaws, thanks for your loyalty.  Here’s to another good three years.

“You have to try these.” Dad said with some intensity in his voice.Dad, my father, the man who used to struggle to boil water, the man who I once ate a meal prepared by him where we poured our mashed potatoes over our gravy, was cooking.

It had only been a couple of years since Mom passed away, and being away at college, I’d still try to make it home most weekends.  Overall, Dad did a pretty good job of making sure that things went off without a hitch.  Sure, little sister Margaret had her fair share of frozen pizza.  Sure the Red Apple Café was seeing a bit more of the family,  but Dad was holding true to some of our family traditions – boiled bologna, wild rice hotdish, roast beef, bacon and eggs, and even the afore mentioned mash potatoes and gravy were often times on the plates – much better then the first attempt.

But now, he was trying new things.

The current concoction, the thing that I just “had to try” was something from his youth.

Dumplings.

Potato dumplings to be correct, not the chicken noodle soup dumplings that remain one of the families’ best kept secrets.  No one, not a brother, sister-in-law, aunt, cousin, neighbor, or family cookbook could tell us the secret of Mom’s chicken soup dumplings.  But potato dumplings were, in all fairness, new territory for us.

It is a simple recipe, using left over mashed potatoes, flour, and eggs made into spheres, and boiled until they float, then cut up and fried.

As Dad cut them up next to the stove and prepared to fry them with scrambled eggs for our supper, he told me the story of how he had originally learned to make them.  As a child, he had spent a fair amount of time with his bachelor uncle and widower grandfather in the very house that we lived in.  Uncle Charlie and Grandpa Stolka (as our family still affectionately refers to both) were the stereotypical bachelor farmers.  They worked hard, tending the fields, cattle, and horses, and ate unhealthy, but hearty meals.

“Grandpa Stolka used to make these every week.” Dad said proudly, as he started to mix them in with the frying eggs on the stove.  “We would have them with eggs, with steak, with almost everything.”

Dad stirred the pan as the eggs yellowed and formed in the pan and the dumplings turned a golden brown.

Triumphantly, he scooped them up onto plates and we carried them to the table.

Heads bowed, we said grace – “Bless us oh Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.” Silently I added, “Lord, protect me from thine stomach pump….”

Picking one up with my fork and sticking it in my mouth, Dad looked at me expectantly, waiting for the judgment.

“Well, what do you thing?” He asked.

“It’s pretty good.” I replied, one of the highest praises a Minnesota man can bestow, with all honesty and sincerity.  It was darn good.  Tasty.

As we dug in, Dad made the comment in between bites, “They aren’t as dark as your Grandpa Stolka used to make.”

“What did he put in there that made it darker?” I asked, trying to figure out what could be darker in a flour, potato, and egg mixture.

Dad munched thoughtfully.  In his eyes, you could see him remembering back to the days in this very house, with Uncle Charlie and Grandpa Stolka, working the fields, minding the cattle and horses, and living simple life. Dad replied with sincerity and matter of factly, “Nothing, your Grandpa Stolka just didn’t wash his hands that much.”

 I’m coming up on my first year in Melbourne, Australia.  I’ve committed to another year or two down here.  It has overall been a great experience.  I’ve learned.  I’ve grown.  I’ve aged.  I’ve regained some of my youthfulness.  I’ve explored.  I’ve reflected.  I’ve increased my confidence.  I’ve been humbled. 

I’ve been blessed.

But I don’t want people to think that I’ve forgotten either.  There is a whole host of people that I’ve left behind, that I owe a debt of gratitude to.  People that write, call, send care packages, look after my house, send encouraging notes via Facebook and email.

The last year has been hard.  The time away from family, friends, and community has been difficult.  But I know that it has been difficult on others as well.  There are some painful calls.  Some difficult notes.  As hard as it is to believe – there are people that actually seem to miss me!

I’m hoping that the time away will serve some purpose.  There is a faith in things not seen, and hope in things yet to come.  I hope that I’ll leave here, a better person, a better son, a better brother, uncle, Godfather, cousin, nephew, friend, mentor, follower, and leader.

It is like the man that every time he passed gas, it would go, “hoooooonnddddaaaa.”  So he went to the doctor.  As he was sitting in the office, he let a little gas go, and it went, “Hoooonnnddaaa.” Doctor peered around the corner and said, “You’d better go and see a dentist about that abscessed tooth.”  “Doctor,” The man said, “How do you know I’ve got an abscessed tooth?”

“Everyone knows that an abscess makes the farts go Honda.” Replied the doctor….

Better person maybe, but don’t hold out hope for the jokes….

 I hopped on a tram and headed back for my apartment, no open toed shoes would keep from my chosen rounds this day.  The day of the second AFL Grand Final – the final, Grand Final of the Australian Football Leagues play.

Rushing into my apartment and changing shoes, I decided that my orginal plan would be slightly altered.  Since I was already home, I’d go in reverse order and end the match at the Waterside Pub.  Since the Woolshed was across the street and I knew the game was on and the beer was cold, it seemed like the rational thing to do.

The Wooshed was, well, busy.  As quiet as most of the other places had been, the Woolshed was rocking.  It was busier than a week ago.  They had opened up another side of the bar, people spilled outside onto the patio, the waitstaff seemed to have doubled.

But there wasn’t a jumper/jersey to be seen.

Grabbing a table up front (yup, there were still tables free), I watched the second quarter.  Glancing at the crowd, these were men and women, about my age, gathering with friends and being in a spot to be seen.  They were stylish.  They were having a good time.  They were into the game.  But they were what I was expecting.

I had been warned.  A co-worker had told me that while the first Grand Final was marked with a lot of barbeques and gatherings, this was going to be one for the bars.  And so it seemed.

A pint of beers and a bowl of chips (French Fries to you Americans) and the second quarter was over, time to move along to my next stop – the Crown Casino.

The marquee tent outside of the Crown Casino was happening.  The brass band and the mascot’s out front continued to entertain the crowd.  Inside, people were drinking, dancing, and having a good time.

There were even people watching the football game.

I’m being a little overly critical – most people were watching the football game, though with Collingwood firmly in the lead, and few people sporting their team colors, it seemed to lack the intensity of the week before.  More ties and suits seemed to mark the place too.

The Waterside, my favorite place to grab a beer and a good parma, was to me my next, and last stop of the day.

And it didn’t disappoint.  There were a lot of people there. And St. Kilda supporters were out in force.  There were jumpers/jersey’s everywhere.  A few Collingwood supporters were interspersed.  They were into the game, despite what looked like an impending Collingwood victory – though Collingwood had lost it before – so the place remained hopeful.

It was a good mix of people, though it was a fairly young crowd.  It was remarkable for the numbers that were there – probably double the previous week.

As Collingwood cruised to a victory, the place didn’t seem to lose its intensity.  “We expected this, hoped for something different, but expected this.” One Saints supporter remarked to me.

But there was little celebrating on the streets.  There was no rioting, as expected if Collingwood would have won the weekend before.  People were, for the most part, behaved and nonchalant about the whole affair.

Walking home, I have to admit, I felt sorry for Collingwood.  Having to play it out a second week in a row just seemed to take the wind out of their sails.  The sex scandal announced the next day where two players were accused of assaulting a women didn’t help matters.

I said to a Collingwood supporter about a week later, “I feel sorry for Collingwood, they never really got a chance to celebrate.”

He went, as they would say in Australia, a little feral on me, “We don’t want your sympathy.  We won the frickin’ Grand Final.”

Spoken like a true Collingwood fan.

Grand Final, At the Woolshed

View inside the Woolshed, Second Quarter

Views inside the Crown Tent

The Waterside, on Game Day

 I will admit, the week after the draw was a bit uneventful, especially given the lead up to the first Grand Final.  Both Collingwood and St. Kilda were hopeful, expectant, of a win.  And the next Saturday would be the day – it would be the rematch.

But the papers told the story – both teams played, and played hard to win the week before.  St. Kilda played their hearts out, but with several players injured and Collingwood with more depth, most people believed that a Collingwood victory was only a matter of time.

But St. Kilda had surprised before, and much to the chagrin of Collingwood fans, their team had folded before, so in the end, most people believed that it was going to be a good game.

Only better.

This week, no corporate boxes, no free tickets to people outside of the clubs, no non-footy fans going for the experience, it was going to die hard fans going to see the Grand Final.  No lead up events, no parades, no jumbo jet fly by – just Footy.  Pure.  Simple.

The day of the Grand Final Redoux, was clear, bright, and warm.

I decided that I would follow my exact same route, exact same timing, exact same path, with maybe a few less beers.

I started by walking up the river again, up along the paverstone and timber walk.  Few jumpers for either Collingwood or St. Kilda could be found.  Along the casino, the marquee was all set up, the brass band was playing, the Magpie and the Saint were working the crowd, most of whom milled around without really seeming to care.

Walking farther up the river, the crowds were thick, but more with people seemingly out enjoying the nice spring weather then really cheering on a team.

At the Princes Bridge, I walked across and looked down on the riverside bars in Federation Square – there were seats aplenty.  Deciding not to walk further down to the MCG, I watched as the few stragglers hurried to their seats at the hallowed cricket and footy ground.  But more tourists, enjoying the weather and the scenes of Melbourne from the riverside, were out and about.  The buskers playing music mixed their footy anthems with more popular favorites to appeal to the non-footy crowd.

I waited for a Quanta’s flyby that never came (they don’t spend the money on a second Grand Final), then made my way to the big screen in Federation Square.

The crowd was smaller.  Much smaller.  I walked with ease through the mass of people, back to the beer gardens, where I bought a beer, and found a seat.  With no problem.  While there were people wearing Collingwood and St. Kilda jumpers, there were far fewer then the week before.  With Collingwood taking an early lead, I made my way to Young and Jackson’s, just to see if I could make it in.

At Young and Jackson’s, there was no line.  There was no excitement.  There was little fanfare.  Walking up to the door, the bouncer came out to greet me.

“You want to go in?” He asked.

“Yes sir.” I replied.

“You can’t.” He said.

“Is it that full?” I asked, surprised given the lack of activity.

“No man, plenty of room, but not open toed shoes.” He said, pointing down at my flip flops.

Band Playing Outside of Crown Casino

Saint and Magpie Face Off

The MCG on the Second Grand Final

Smaller Crowd At Fed Square