Amelia Draws

Kooka, an old friend, was a sparrow of a man. Tiny, frail and friendly. A face of many warm and worn wrinkles describing a man who looked much older then his years. He was an artist with superb technical skills and care. We shared that love of art. We shared a love of history, we shared our politics, our favourite footy team, we shared a cherished poem. We talked deeply and at length about each of them. He taught me a lot, he made me laugh alot.

Kooka was also a determined alcoholic. He spent all afternoon, evening and night at the pub that I worked in. He was a light in that dark place, a sad light perhaps, but a light none the less and we all loved him. Kooka was such a regular, such a fixture of this pub that he had a designated barstool that no local would dream of sitting in. That no tourist was allowed to either. That stool was permanently taken, so much so a small brass plate was attached to to the back saying ‘Kooka’s seat’.

Each night he settled into his seat perched at the corner of the pub in which he could see the whole room and would remain until closing. There he would flirt with the ladies, buy them the odd drink. Talk about the footy with the men who came to order from the bar, let them by him a drink. And then he would begin to laugh. A bouncing, full throated, cawing hahahaha. Hence the nickname Kooka after the Kookaburra and its famed bouncing cackling laugh.

Kooka died, in many ways a sad and lonely man. In other ways loved by many, or at least enough. He was buried in the bush with his favourite verse from his favourite poem read aloud above his grave.

And, from then on his seat by the bar remained empty. The sign on the back of the stool remained. A drawing and photo of Kooka and by Kooka were hung on the wall by his seat. It was a hollow corner of that pub for many months as we eached grieved. Letting someone sit in Kooka’s chair felt so very wrong so it didn’t happen. It stayed unsat in by local and tourist alike until the new people bought the pub and history moved on taking Kooka’s chair with it.

Someone like Kooka probably won’t be remembered even with a barstool named after him and I don’t think he would really mind. He wasn’t here to be remembered. Many people came to these hills because they didn’t want to be remembered.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him in the murmur of the breezes aand the river on its bars.

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended and at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

Clancy of the Overflow
Banjo Patterson