MEAT PIES, MOONSHINERS, AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

by Bob Tucker

Faulconbridge, the home of Eric Lindsay, Ken and Marea Ozanne, (and Sue and Ron Clarke in nearby Warrimoo) is perhaps two hours by rail from Sydney, in the Blue Mountains west of the city. The 10th Irregular Faulcon was held in Eric's home the weekend after Aussiecon, picking up where the worldcon left off; forty guests signed in before the con was over, Canadians, Americans, and Australians all trooping in for one last bash before the foreign invaders flew back to the States. We were met at trainside, a delightful native habit, and taken on tour of the town. The bookstore was decimated of its stock (Norman Lindsay watercolors and pen sketches at $4 a volume!! I bought six,) and then we discovered a bakery just at the closing hour and relieved the baker of every meat pie on the premises -- all fresh from the oven. (I hadn't liked the meat pies in Melbourne and was unable to finish the only one I bit into, but the Faulconbridge meat pies have the Tucker seal of approval. I learned the difference between pies baked in a small shop, and the mass-produced factory product available at Aussiecon parties.) Eric's house is a fairly new two-storey edifice set back from a winding road, and the forty visitors filled every room, nook, cranny, balcony and garage. There were rumors of fist-fights every night as civilized fans fought for the half-dozen beds, and perhaps bribes exchanged hands as well, with the losers sleeping outdoors on the balcony. Eric owns five typewriters and two mimeographs, and Susan Wood's con reports for Locus were produced on one of those seven instruments -- the one with the 'Strine accent.

The inevitable Ranquet was held that night at the town's only Chinese restaurant. According to the mimeographed program, Olaf Stapledon was Toastmaster. and H.G. Wells the Host Master. I found myself the guest of honor, and at meal's end was awarded a "Hugo." The other diners in the restaurant were bemused by the ceremonies, and although they trembled and glanced nervously at the door, they their places when the cry of "Smooooth!" rocked the room. The was a pocket dictionary published by the Hugo Publishing Co., of London; the name HUGO was stamped in large type on the cover and flyleaf bore several famous autographs: Gernsbach, Wells. Tolkein, Verne. Stapledon, and Elliot Dold. This award was a fitting companion-piece to another I had received at Aussiecon's dead-dog party the week before. A pack of Australians of low repute gave me "The Golden Boob Award" for services rendered fandom. and then introduced me to the lady who had modeled the artifact. That award consisted of a matched pair, bronzed and mounted on a plaque. Many speculations were bandied about, wondering just how I would bring back that trophy thru Customs.

Rusty and I stayed at Ken and Marea Ozanne's clifftop home mile a down the road, neatly avoiding the nightly competition for bed space at Eric's Instant Slanshack. I was amazed by three things: Ken's collection, his ten-inch telescope, and the Ozanne canyon.

Keith Curtis's apartment had been stacked with books and pulps but here I discovered a housefull; it had been necessary to shuffle books aside to find sitting and dining space at Keith's abode, but here it was only a slight exaggeration to say that the tub had to be emptied of pulps before taking a shower. The man had thousands, perhaps tens of thousand of items, everything a rabid fan amasses. He had taunted me earlier by waving a 1936 Astounding in my face, offering a bribe for my autograph, and now I was willing to believe that if I searched diligently I would unearth a 1923 Weird Tales -- perhaps in his freezer, or under the back seat of his Jaguar. The ten-inch telescope was an optical beauty, the finest instrument I've seen or used, and Ken hosted a star-party every night for the visiting fans. Cold, clean mountain air enhanced the viewing, again the best I've ever experienced. The Southern Cross was easily visible to the naked eye, but I was surprised to find it face down and the cross-arm elongated to the point of distortion. So much for the pretty magazine pictures.

The greatest wonder of all was a canyon at the backdoor. The Ozanne house appears to perch on an outcropping of rock that seems as old as the Australian continent itself, with the canyon dropping away just beyond that rocky ledge. It was an easy trek to the botton with Ken acting the guide -- perhaps a half-hours journey -- but climbing out again was a different matter. At the very bottom of the canyon was a superb waterfall and Peggy's Pool, filled with icy water from that fall. Marea said that in the olden days when the nearby railroad was being built, a moonshiner named Peggy erected a still there, tapping the waters of the fall, and manufactured joy juice for the hardbitten gentlemen putting down the railroad. The railroad management were a bunch of puritans, insisting on a Clean and Dry work crew, but Peggy knew the men better than the managers. It was easy to lounge on a rock, to bask in the warm sun and dream for hours beside the pool, and some of us did just that. Thompson's fanzine Don-o-Saur will publish some of those dreams. Ah yes. I had fallen in love with Australia. Sunday afternoon I accompanied Ken and Marea to the Penrith hospital to visit their son Alexander, age 6. Alexander had been playing in his yard a few weeks before Aussiecon when a drunken driver came speeding along the mountain road, lost control of her car on a curve, and plunged into the yard after him. She nearly killed the boy. He'd been told the Americans were in town and now he seemed delighted to meet a real live one, a crittur from out of lurid pulps and TV shows. He was fantisted by my midwestern accent and wanted to hear me repeat "grass" again and again. The a sound fascinated him and so I told him about baseball and Hank Aaron. All three Ozanne's are planning on the Orlando Suncon in 1977.

Faulcon 10 closed Monday night and Eric heaved a sigh of vast relief: we had eaten him out of house and home, banged out several con reports on his five typers (and did someone turn out a one-shot on his mimeos?), watched Pal's "Time Machine" on his telly, filched old and rare pulps from his collection. and smoked up his house. This last was unforgivable. Eric doesn't smoke and had repeatedly asked his visitors not to smoke indoors. Unfortunately, unhappily, some visitors ignored his wishes, leaving him depressed.