How do you capture the rich life of Val in one image? You don't.
Her grand daughter, Shaeley, nominated Val for the People of Mansfield project describing her as a 'great community asset, assisting with numerous events over the years including the Mansfield Show, Tolmie Sports (where she has a 80+ year involvement as both a competitor and volunteer), Pony Club, Mansfield Historical Society and the local church where she makes jams and sauces for fundraising.'
Val, a gifted story teller, is a regular on Radio Man where she shares her poems and stories. Val was awarded Senior Citizen of the Year in 2019.
The environment of choice for me to photograph Val in was her kitchen - a time capsule from another era. An untouched weatherboard home near the centre of town - the kitchen is the centre of the home - original oven, black and white photographs on the walls, jars of preserves made for the local church - a busy, lived in kitchen. I met Val there for tea to discuss her portrait - no frills, no fanfare, Val tells you how it is. "Don't mind the mess" then "if you don't like it you're a wus."
A relative newcomer to Mansfield, I found it difficult to keep up with Val as she recounted stories of life in and people of Mansfield before my time. Fortunately Val's love of poetry, that began at school, means that many of her stories are recorded. Val describes her poetry as traditional - stories she knows and has lived.
Val's portrait was taken on the family farm that still hold remnants of a bygone era with equipment from the old sawmill still in one of the sheds. One of her poems provides a wonderful insight into the history of the mill.
Kirleys Mill
The sound of the axe wakes the bush,
Another work day has begun,
A bushman can tell,
If a tree is fit to be fell,
A skill passed from father to son.
In the hills beyond the farm mill,
Stringybark and peppermint grow well,
Through bracken and wattle,
Dozer chains strain and rattle,
Pulling logs that the miller had fell.
Planks cut from mountain bluegum,
To bridge the clear alpine streams,
In places of mystery,
That is all part of local history,
Left to live on now in our dreams.
The farmers needs would be met,
With yard posts, strainers and stays,
Poles for the hay shed,
From box trees yellow and red
And those were the old milling days.
The yard was a trading place,
With timber stacked straight and square,
Droppers, rails and pailings,
Now only dry firewood tailings,
Tell of the work once done there.
The old mill bench is rusty and cold,
Cobwebs have invaded the space,
Where the saw would hum,
Through the rich red gum,
Cutting fence posts at a regular pace.
Gone is the man in front of the bench,
And his offsider behind the saw,
Where we toiled with zest,
Now he's earned eternal rest,
And we won't cut timber no more.