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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Sun Jan 18, 2015 11:01 pm

Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 26:

Superior Beings

At different times of my life events happened I couldn’t explain. Far back as I remember someone or something guided my life. Perhaps a superior being sent to look after me.
When I think about the many times my life has been saved by this imaginary superior being, I thank whoever or whatever in saving me from myself.
My journey through life has been interesting to say the least. Perhaps if I started from the beginning to explain my thoughts sufficient evidence shows to identify a superior being always looking over my shoulder in time of need.
Early in my life, about six years old, I became a rescuer. To explain, I’ll share a story illustrating my reason for thinking this. At aged six years old a friend named Peter lived three doors from my home.
My parents owned bicycles, one black and the other pink. Peter rode the black one whilst I rode the pink one. One day Peter asked my father if he could purchase the black one; my father sold Peter the black bike.
We continued to ride our bikes and one day I asked Peter to ride his bike, to which he replied in a strong voice, No! I couldn’t understand his reasoning because I always loaned him the bike before his purchase.
Our lives went in different directions and after fifty years Peter contacted me ‘out of the blue’. He wanted the names of pupils in our grade 1 school photograph.
After identifying some I needed to travel to Brisbane and search the archives to determine the others. Upon finding the proper information I sent Peter the information who at the time lived in Adelaide.
Later that year I travelled to Adelaide and arranged to meet him and his family, to catch up with each other after fifty year absence. Actually I thought I was doing the right thing to be sharing our lives since we last seen one another.
We met and greeted each other, not in the same manner as I’d imagined, but when I produced the information Peter needed, he reverted to the person fifty years before. At that moment I realised nothing changed between us, once he obtained the information he needed from me, he cast me aside.
Memories flooded back to when he didn’t want me to ride his bike. Disappointed and rejected, however, at that moment calmness swept through my body relieving all sense of anger and disappointment. I’ve never seen nor heard from Peter again. Was my superior being helping me once again?
Word count: 430
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Mon Jan 19, 2015 10:08 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 27:

The Best Things Happen By Mistake

After writing my memoirs and thinking about my life, I saw in my mind’s eye a power greater than anything on earth. This power developed in my mind showing huge tentacles with no body. At the time I wasn’t using drugs and my mind clear.
Walking through thoughts of my life journey, I discovered many different events which happened along the way. Most of these events happened by mistake. Like for instance, at aged twenty-one years old I wanted to escape the city and work in the country.
In those days when one looked for a position of work in the country you visited the ‘Unemployment Bureau’ at your local suburb. I gained employment as a ‘Station Mechanic’ on a property named ‘Dyvenor Downs’ west of Cunnamulla in south-west Queensland.
After three days travelling by train and mail truck I reached the property to find I was the only ‘Station Mechanic’ for the one million acre property. Prior to leaving the ‘Unemployment Bureau’ they told me I would be one of about six ‘Station Mechanics’ working on the property.
Over the following six months I repaired machinery, de-sexed lambs, and enjoyed a great time living in the wild west of South-west Queensland getting to know the locals and their way of life. A huge lesson in life.
This wouldn’t be the final time I worked in the area. Another best thing happened by mistake when after I joined the Queensland Police and transferred to Cunnamulla.
This time I met my future bride and married. Over time we visited Cunnamulla and again transferred to the town this time as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Branch.
There is an old saying, once you cross the Warrego River you’ll cross it many times’. This saying is true because I first crossed the Warrego River at twenty-one years of age and crossed it many times since.
After penning my memoirs and viewing the evidence from the words I wrote, I am convinced the best things happen by mistake for many places I’ve been in my life only go to prove there is a higher power than we know exist and this power uses its huge tentacles to guide us throughout our lives, meet people who help us or take us into a different directions.
Word count: 390
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Tue Jan 20, 2015 9:28 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 28:

The Blind Beggar Girl

Crystal sat on the pavement with a tin cup in one hand, a sign 'Please Give To The Blind' in the other. Passer-byers placed a donation into Crystal's cup. When the sound of coins hit the bottom of the cup, she'd reply, 'thank you'. This is what she did each day since she could remember from aged five years to her now present age of twenty-one.
She'd lived at the local Blind Institute since her parents died in a car crash when she was five years old. Strapped into a car seat in the rear of the vehicle, she survived the crash however from that time onward she was blind. Doctors couldn't tell if her blindness was a result of the car crash or the loss of her parents.
Happiness was always in her life. She lived each day as if it was her last. Day upon day she took up her position at the same location on the footpath. Each donation helped being a beggar. Often her thoughts went to a better life; however at this stage after sixteen years of begging she'd survived.
Crystal's dark world wasn't all bad. Her hearing was excellent, as well as her other senses. She often asked a passer-by the name of the scent they wore.
One cold morning in middle of June a warm coat of hair rubbed against her side and a noise she couldn't make out at first what it was. She smelt animal breathe on the side of her face a tail struck her leg. Dropping the sign to the ground her hand swept along a coat of hair. 'Good-day boy,' she whispered as a tongue lick the side of her face. 'What's your name?' She asked.
A stranger said, 'I'm Toby and this is my dog Rufus. We've come to save you. I'm blind and Rufus is my eyes. May I sit with you?' This stranger asked.
As if by instinct Crystal moved her body to allow this stranger to sit beside her. 'Do you beg?' She asked the stranger.
'No, I don't beg. I don't need to. I wanted to ask why you beg?'
'I need to so I can stay at the Blind Institute to help pay my way.' Embarrassed to share her feelings with a total stranger but with the warmth this stranger showed she decided to tell him her story. 'How long have you been blind?' She asked.
'All of my life.'
'Why don't you need to beg, like I do.'
'I have sufficient money to keep me and Rufus.'
'Why are you interested in what I do?' She asked.
'I want to help you.'
'How? I don't need help. I'm happy doing what I'm doing.'
'Call me your guardian angel. I don't want you to beg any more. Come with me and I'll look after you.'
Could she trust this stranger. Would he actually help her? These questions raced through her mind. 'Are you telling me the truth?' She asked.
'Believe me, it's true. I want to help you. Would you please let me help you.'
'I'm right doing what I'm comfortable with and begging on this spot is what I want to do.' She wasn't comfortable speaking to this stranger.
'Okay Rufus, she's turned us down. Come on let's go and leave this lovely girl to beg.' He stood. Footsteps faded into the distance.
She returned to her begging and to this day she continues to beg for she is The Blind Beggar Girl.
Word count:589
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Wed Jan 21, 2015 9:48 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 29:

The Cabbie Who Knew The Way

In 1965 aged 17 years old I visited my parents who at the time lived at Blacktown, a Sydney western suburb.
Uncle Bobby, my father’s brother held a cabbie license and drove his own cab. He picked my parents and me up at Blacktown to show us the sites of Sydney.
His cab, 1964 Holden Eh Sedan, grey with pink. When he picked us up from my parent’s home he told me to drive. I couldn’t believe my Uncle Bobby would give me an opportunity to drive his cab. I loved it.
Little did I realise at the time, because of my age, I couldn’t enter licensed premises and whilst I waited in the carpark, my parents and uncle entered the licensed premises.
Many hours later they returned to the cab with me sitting behind the wheel waiting for them. In those days the cabbie had no radio, only a meter to charge the customer. I never worried about waiting for I’d waited for my father many times before while he went for a drink.
With my uncle and parents over the top filled with alcohol I became a golden boy who drove them home. This didn’t concern me because only a couple of months prior to this event I’d gained my driver’s license and to drive a brand new Holden EH Sedan coloured grey and pink became a dream come true.
My uncle drove his cab for the remainder of his life until he retired at the Gold Coast. Ill health forced him to retire when shortly after he lost his life through a heart attack.
Driving in Sydney for most of his life he certainly had knowledge when taking customers to their destination. His stories intrigued me when he told me about drunken customers who had no idea where they lived but somehow he’d find an address to take them.
Uncle Bobby became one of the ole time cabbies who knew their way. Not like the cabbie of today who can’t speak or understand Australian nor read a map nor understand where they need to go.
On one of our trips we arrived in Adelaide and needed to hire a cabbie to take us to our hotel. Prior to departing the airport I explained the hotel where we needed to go. All I received in response, a nod of the head. The cabbie didn’t have far to take us to our accommodation because I could see the top of the hotel before we left the airport.
Either this cabbie had no knowledge where to go or he wanted to take us the long way around to charge us more fare. When I noticed he took the wrong turn, I commented he was going the wrong way and never changed direction.
Eventually we arrived at our destination and in disgust I told the cabbie what I thought of him. He made out he didn’t understand Australian language.
Word count:497
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Thu Jan 22, 2015 10:48 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 30:

The Case Of The Barking Butterfly

Bundy Quicksilver retired from Queensland Police Service over twenty years ago, his daily habit to switch on the early news to watch the happenings in the world of crime.
Alarm bells exploded in his mind when he saw the body of a woman lying in a gutter in the inner city streets of Brisbane. ‘Does anyone know this person’ broadcast across the airways.
Bundy’s eyes almost popped from his head when he sighted a close up view of a tattoo ‘The Barking Butterfly’, now faded from its glorious colour way back in the 70’s but still he identified the tattoo and instantly placed a name with the body.
His mind travelled back in time to when he first sighted the tattoo. The year 1970, only a couple of weeks prior he’d been sworn in as a constable with Queensland Police Service or Force it was known then.
Instead of serving in uniform, his role to be an undercover agent with the Licensing Branch, to seek out prostitutes and gaming dens. This particular night his task to visit the Wickham Hotel in Fortitude Valley and there pick up a prostitute and take her to ‘San Remo Brothel’ in Wickham Terrace with explicit instructions from his bosses ‘not to partake in any sexual activity’.
After trying his luck with twelve well known ‘girls of the night’ each didn’t want to go to San Remo but to a closer brothel, number thirteen became lucky.
‘Take me any where, handsome’ She replied holding Bundy by the hand and going with him to his 1964 Holden Utility parked in the car park.
Entering the foyer of San Remo Bundy paid the Madam for a room. Lucky number 13 grabbed his hand quickly dragged him to the room. Once inside she undressed and this is when Bundy sighted the tattoo on her right thigh ‘The Barking Butterfly’.
Lying on the bed naked Lucky Number 13 coaxed Bundy to undress and get into action for she needed to return to select another customer. His mind raced to find questions to ask while he focused on the tattoo.
‘What a beautiful tattoo’? He said looking directly at it.
‘It is nice, now forget about the tattoo and let’s get into action’. She started to rise from the bed.
A knock on the door, ‘Police, open up?’
Bundy opened the door to let his fellow officers into the room. Lucky Number 13 arrested.
Bundy never forgot ‘The Barking Butterfly’ tattoo or Lucky Number 13. Now she was no more. May she rest in peace?
Word count: 434
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Fri Jan 23, 2015 9:38 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 31:

The Dawn Of Insanity

When is a person deemed to be insane? This question arose many times when I investigated crimes involving people who thought God told them to murder the other person or to do them harm.
I remember clearly an investigation which happened many years ago involving a father and son who lived on a property. At the time the son had been released from a mental institution to visit his father who was dying of cancer.
During his visit over Christmas the son fatally shot his father while the father watched television. He admitted to killing his father, to put him out of his misery. At the time he honestly thought he did the right thing when God told him to do it.
Later when the son appeared in the Supreme Court, he pleaded ‘not guilty’ on the grounds God told him to murder his father. His admission to hearing voices in his head demanding he shoot his father to stop him from suffering.
The detective asked this question, ‘if a policeman was standing beside you, would’ve you killed your father?’ His reply, ‘no, it would be wrong to murder someone in front of a policeman.’
The jury found the son guilty of murdering his father. His answered, he knew it to be wrong shooting his father if a policeman was standing beside him, he had the capacity to know how wrong to commit the offence. He received a life imprisonment for his actions.
Up until this time many persons escaped their punishment on the grounds of ‘insanity’. Detective Brown from the Criminal Investigation Branch in Adelaide posed this question to a suspect during a murder investigation.
If Detective Brown didn’t ask this question, perhaps more persons would’ve escaped punishment by admitting to being insane at the time of the offence. This always puzzled me when in my work as a detective because if a person claimed they were insane, the prosecution had to prove beyond a reasonable doubt the person was sane at the time they committed the offence and knew what they did wrong.
Detective Brown’s initiative and clarity when questioning his offender about a policeman being present at the time certainly placed the onus of proof back onto the offender to prove they were insane at the time of the offence.
Word count:390
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Sat Jan 24, 2015 11:20 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 32:

The Perfect Tenant

Let me share a family story about my grandmother. At twelve years old she came into my life. My family moved from the country to live with her in the city until suitable accommodation found for our family. Her dark grey hair, silky skin and always wore an apron. She lived in a flat at Spring Hill, an inner city suburb of Brisbane. Early in her life she lost sight in one eye and had it replaced with a glass eye.
She paid rent to live in a shop, one of four shops converted to flats. One walked from the footpath directly into the lounge room, which joined the kitchen. Glass windows, painted white fronted the footpath with double doors in the centre. A narrow stairwell went upstairs to three bedrooms. A small verandah overlooked the city. Downstairs, the toilet, bath and laundry with the narrowest back yard possible. Weekly she paid a guinea for rent. To my knowledge she lived in this flat from 1936 until 1971. She was the perfect tenant.
My grandfather passed away before I was born. He and my grandmother lived at the flat in Spring Hill when he died. She remained living there. When one considers the perfect tenant, one must take into consideration the time spent in the residence and making payments.
My grandmother lived at the same flat in Spring Hill Brisbane for thirty-five years. Obviously the rent rose from the time she first arrived to when she finally departed. Each week she paid the rent on time plus the electricity and gas even after she became a widow. She was the perfect tenant.
My memory living with her still remains in my mind. I still smell the gas from the stove, pungent odour. Her cooking on a small gas stove, one of those you placed a shilling coin into the slot of the meter to use the gas. If children were near, her voice still echoes in my head. 'Get outside. Children should be seen and not heard.' She repeated this saying over and over until we never came near adults while they were speaking.
One fond memory, each Saturday afternoon she allowed my sisters and I to play records on her record player in her bedroom. This became a joy to be allowed to use her player and listen to the latest music. Another fond memory when she took us shopping with her to the city. We'd walk with her from her home to the major shops to enjoy the crowds, eat at a canteen and walk home.
She always had visitors. My aunt lived a couple of doors away and she often visited her mother and talk over an afternoon cup-of-tea. Unfortunately my aunt was an alcoholic and needed to have extra tonic in her cup to mix with her tea. They'd argue about two flies crawling up the wall, or more than not two cockroaches scooting across the floor.
I attended the local school which my father and uncles also attended in their earlier days. A teacher who taught my father and his brothers still taught at the school. As soon as my name was mentioned, an instant dislike became apparent between the two of us. He reminded me on more than one occasion how similar I behaved to my father and uncles thus I received the cane for deeds I didn't think I deserved. It was living in hell until I left when my parents purchased a house.
My grandmother always cooked. Around the kitchen table we sat not saying a word whilst the adults chatted about their day. As soon as dinner was finished my grandmother bellowed for us to take a bath and go to bed. Confused because it was five o'clock in the afternoon and still light.
Eventually my family moved from my grandmother's flat in Spring Hill to a suburb in western Brisbane. My grandmother remained at Spring Hill. Off and on over the next decade I seldom visited her and each time found my time with her to be difficult. It was always with my family and she never wanted to have much to do with her grandchildren, especially me for reasons I couldn't explain.
Word count: 709
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Sun Jan 25, 2015 10:20 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 33:

The Tables Were Turned

Control freaks of this world annoy the crap out of me. Why do others need to take control to always get what they want? If things don't go their way, then all hell breaks loose. Needless to say everything worked for and achieved, I've done myself.
Don't worry, I'm not an angel in disguise. When the tables were turned when confronted by a control freak, I sink to the background and keep out of sight. All through my life confrontation of any type especially when it stems from an authoritative figure displeases me. I'd shudder down to my boots when I became confronted for anything blameless. More times than not I became the innocent party.
I remember one incident most clearly. At the time I established 'Crimestoppers' for Queensland Police. My role to establish this programme within three weeks. At the time the programme became a political football because of the 'Fitzgerald Inquiry' being conducted on Queensland Police Force into official corruption.
Crimestoppers had nothing to do with this inquiry however the Police Minister at the time thought Crimestoppers would be a good bargaining tool to gain points on their opposition. As it turned out the act by The Minister became fruitless because the opposition won the next election.
My role to establish Crimestoppers placed me in a position of autonomy, 'to get the job done'. Actually I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. To be given this task after twenty years of continued service became a blessing in disguise. In my mind I could do it. In my heart everything would turn out right.
Instead of my workday being eight hours this expanded to at times eighteen hours 'to get the job done' on time and delivered. Every skill I learned over the twenty years joined together into a funnel of hope. Within three weeks everything worked as required.
My major role to write computer programmes, select staff, train, implement programmes through television, news print and radio. When I think back to the time July 1989 computer software hardly existed. Don't ask me how, but everything worked.
By the final day before the official launch exhaustion overtook my body and mind. I needed a rest. I'll never forget one of my staff the morning after the official launch wanted to speak with me about something important. We sat in our tea room and whilst having morning tea she shared with me probably the most important news I never wanted to hear. She told me I'd become a treat to our superior officer now with the programme completed. I'd be asked to leave.
When confronted about this information I thought back since the period I started the programme and thought, no-one asked me what I'm doing. I went ahead and did what I thought proper. Is this information true. Is there a dagger sticking out of my back? I thanked the officer for her information and thought nothing more about her comments.
Within a week I appeared before my superior officer and told in no uncertain terms my tender terminated and to leave forthwith. Her information correct. The knife driven into my back, twisted and blood flowed down my legs. What could I do? Absolutely nothing. I packed my office equipment, said farewell to my staff and thanked them for their valuable work and left never to return.
At the time I never understood about 'control freaks' however this became my introduction to these individuals who want to control everything with their hold on control. Since personally experiencing this act of 'control freak' there's nothing to defend against this type of individual. I treat everyone how I want to be treated myself with dignity and honesty. Not to be controlled.
Certainly the tables were turned in this incident, but I'll never forget being told before I left, you did the best you could've done under the circumstances. It's a long hard road without any turns with the destination never known where this road is going to take you. These words still remain in my mind. I'm a believer in fate and destiny. Things are sent to try us with lessons learned to make us a stronger person and live another day. I certainly learn and continue to learn each step to reach the end of this winding road and much more to learn thanks to the table being turned.
Word count:737
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Mon Jan 26, 2015 10:02 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 34:

The Watch – The Favour – The Very Big Fish

My grandmother became the dearest person to my heart during my childhood. Anytime I wanted her advice, she gave it. We became close. I trusted her more than anyone else on earth.
On my twelfth birthday she told me when I turned twenty-one years old she would present me with a gift of my grandfather’s gold watch. My grandfather had fought in World War 1 in France. She showed me the watch many times and I couldn’t wait for the time I received it.
My cousin Danny, who reached his twenty-first birthday two years before I did became a conscripted soldier and sent to Vietnam War. On his departure my grandmother presented him with my grandfather’s gold watch which she promised to me.
At the time Danny should’ve been entitled to the watch before me because he not only represented his country and fought overseas, he was the eldest grandchild. He did me the greatest favour by receiving the watch before departure.
After the war Danny returned home and life went on and the watch never mentioned again in our family or between my grandmother and me. I didn’t feel any jealousy nor did I resent Danny receiving the watch, perhaps it may have been a good luck totem whilst he served in Vietnam. Let’s hope so!
Many years later I became an author beginning my journey late in life at aged thirty-five. Little did I know where this journey would lead me and moreso how would I realise writing became my good luck totem.
After my grandmother passed on I decided to write her story for the sake of the family to keep her memory alive. Speaking with my aunts, one particularly took an interest and shared information when my grandmother was ten years old she won a writing competition.
This information sent alarm bells off in my mind. I love to write but always I asked a question, ‘where did this writing gene come from’? Obviously this gene had been handed down from my grandmother who won a writing competition when she was ten years old.
With this information on hand I considered to be the luckiest person on earth to receive this gift from my grandmother. This gift provided me with a feeling of ‘catching the very big fish’ in life.
Word count:395
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Tue Jan 27, 2015 10:16 pm

Thank you dub for your kind thanks. Here is the story for today: 'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 35:

The World Is My Oyster

At first I didn’t realise how important this information from my English school teacher would have a profound bearing on my life. Mr Imoff told me, ‘you have a gift for writing. You write the way you speak which is unique’. At the time fourteen years old, the bells and whistles didn’t go off in my mind.
Jump forward twenty years when another teacher praised my writing in a similar manner almost using the exact words as quoted by my English teacher two decades before. Again bells and whistles didn’t explode in my mind.
From this moment began a journey I never imagined would happen to me. I began to write, or should I say given an opportunity to write, my way, instead of worrying about how to write. This world became my oyster.
Lessons learned along this journey forced me to change directions many times, for instance, with the first book I co-wrote with my lecturer who told me I had a gift for writing. I believed him at the time however didn’t understand this so-called ‘gift’. I had no idea what he or the other teacher meant.
Writing and having published the first book over a quarter of a century ago, I decided to write and publish my own book, writing and publishing myself. Did I know if it would work? I didn’t have a clue, but this was part of the journey with lessons along the way to understand writing.
After self-publishing the second book, whilst continuing to sell the first book, my mind told me my future to be in writing. I began to write, write and write. This became an obsession, my mind created ideas to write, develop these words into sentences to complete a story.
One book led onto the next and after twenty-five years I’ve now written my fifteenth novel. How did this come to be such an important part of my life? From the beginning I never had any idea of writing and only wrote the words echoed from my mind. Was this sufficient to become an accomplished published author?
After all of this time, the world is my oyster, because my self-belief tells me I can do anything to achieve my goal in life. I love to write and now my books are sold across the globe in fifty different countries.
To think as a fourteen year old lad sitting in an English class, a teacher had the foresight to remark, I had a gift for writing in that I write the way I speak which is unique. I can’t thank Mr Imoff or lecturer Mr Bob O’Sullivan enough who told me exactly the same words twenty years later, for each teacher to praise their student on his journey of knowing his world is his oyster.
Word count: 473
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Wed Jan 28, 2015 11:11 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 36:


They Don’t Make Men Of That Calibre Anymore

Darren Lockyer retired from playing Rugby League a couple of years ago. His career spanned almost twenty years during which time he captained his country, state and club.
As a child I witnessed Arthur Beetson, another Rugby League legend, strange as it may seem both players originated from Roma, a country town west of our city. Both captained their countries, state and clubs through their illustrious careers.
Arthur Beetson became my hero watching him score try after try each Sunday hoping to one day be as good as him. Alas I never reached those heights or anywhere near what Arthur accomplished.
My family moved to the seaside suburb of Deagon and Arthur moved to Redcliffe to play, not far from where I lived. Most Sundays, at every opportunity, I’d try to watch Arthur play, particular in 1965 when Redcliffe won the State Premiership. You’d swear I’d won the Premiership the way I felt. Arthur went on to represent his country to show his brilliance as a Rugby League player.
At the end of his career Queensland Rugby League introduced ‘State Of Origin’ when players were selected by their state in which they first played, to represent their State.
Before the introduction of ‘State of Origin’, players were selected who played for their clubs. The year 1982, Arthur Beetson captained Queensland in the first ‘State Of Origin’ in which Queensland beat New South Wales. This changed the history of Rugby League between States. Queensland took the upper hand and still holds most wins since the concept began.
In 1988 Brisbane Broncos joined the National Rugby League in Brisbane to play against all other national clubs. A couple of years after their entry into the National Rugby League along came a young player from Roma, his name Darren Lockyer.
Darren began his role as fullback and eventually went on to play for his state and country in that position. Brisbane Broncos needed a new player in the position of five-eighth. Wayne Bennett, the coach of Brisbane Broncos moved Darren from his favoured position of wearing number 1 to wear number 6.
Prior to Darren moving to number 6, he stepped into the boots of many famous players who’d carried the Broncos number 6. Darren excelled at this position and went on to captain his country, state and club wearing number 6.
Unfortunately they don’t make men of that calibre anymore and I wonder what’s in the water at Roma to produce these two great players of Rugby League.
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.
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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Thu Jan 29, 2015 10:06 pm

'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 37:

This Is My Theory

Human nature fascinates me to a degree of frustration. We’re different because if we were all alike, we’d know what each other is doing or going to do.
Let me explain my theory. In my other life I worked as a detective which skills encompassed identifying facts which turned to evidence in solving crimes?
Whilst I loved this occupation with passion, I became amazed how many people ‘didn’t tell the truth’ or ‘twisted the truth’ to escape punishment. After leaving this type of work I ventured onto being an author.
One occupation led from the other because my role as an author didn’t alter too much from a detective. I still needed to find the truth and stick to the facts. Along this journey I discovered another theory: ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’.
Beginning my journey as an author, I wrote stories and books about my own life. Then I ventured on with writing lifetime stories of other people. This experience gave me, with my previous occupation as a detective, skills to identify ‘if the person was telling the truth’.
Along this journey my skills improved with an unknown degree of intrigue to study behaviours or habits of different people I wrote about. For instance, because I initially wrote books about my own life I questioned my own self. Questions like, ‘why do I love to write?’ Other questions such as ‘where did this writing gene come from?’
This question burned in my brain, ‘how come others in my huge family are not authors?’ I decided to investigate this theory.
Last year I wrote and published ‘The Shearer’ a story of my great grandfather who was a shearer in 1891. My grandmother always spoke of her father being the leader of ‘The Great Shearer’s Strike in 1891’.
My grandmother passed away many years ago so I wrote her life story as a tribute to her life. I mentioned when she was ten years old her mother died giving birth to her youngest sister Nellie.
At the time her father couldn’t cope with the loss of his wife, plus the responsibility to rear four children under aged ten. He gave them away to families in Cunnamulla ‘like a litter of pups’. Nellie went with a relative to another town. My grandmother never saw her sister again.
Out of the blue I received an e-mail from a lady who told me she’d read my grandmother’s story on my website and she was Nellie’s eldest daughter. She’d been searching for her family for forty years. Ninety-nine years passed from the time Nellie was born to the time her daughter contacted me. After we confirmed this wasn’t a hoax she told me she also wrote and published books.
My mind went into overdrive; a light bulb flashed inside my head, my theory of ‘behaviours or habits’ must be in the genes of families. The proof lay in the connection of my newly found second cousin to myself being both authors. This is my theory.
Word count: 510
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.

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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Sat Feb 07, 2015 2:58 pm

Thank you dub for your feedback. Interesting topic. I have this theory about habits or behaviour patterns inherited from one relative to another. Here is the story for today: 'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 38:

Travel Used To Be Glamorous

Many moons ago my father worked for Queensland Railways. Yearly he'd been given a free family pass to travel by train anywhere in Queensland. Each year he'd tell us where we'd be travelling, places like The Great Barrier Reef in northern Queensland.
My mind burst with enthusiasm to picture myself viewing The Great Barrier Reef. All the while each year became another promise. We never did travel to The Great Barrier Reef nor any other place. We remained home to spend my vacations dreaming about one day journeying to those far away places. His excuse 'we can't afford holidays this year. Perhaps next year.' Next year same excuse.
Travel was expensive and glamorous. Stories related from the more fortunate friends who travelled with their parents told their stories of adventure seeing different things in their travels. Myself, all I could do was dream and perhaps one day visit these glamorous places my friends spoke about if and when I could afford to.
Also, I lived in a bubble. My life with my family. Attend school, return home, commit to chores, bathe, go to bed and in the morning repeat the same as the day before. The only glamorous travel I'd done was in my head. Studying Social Studies enlightened my knowledge of far away places, too far from my home to ever realise a dream to visit. They grew in my mind so much I would one day visit these glamorous places.
After I completed school and commenced work my boss often told me to travel the world. He'd travelled the seas joining the merchant navy. His story stirred enthusiasm in me to try and travel to visit the places he mentioned. Alas, after completing my apprenticeship I travelled to western Queensland to work on a property.
Dyvenor Downs became my home. Wide open spaces, gum trees almost reaching the sky, a place I thought in all my dreams became a dream of visiting and working on a property. Clear open space for miles, different places, like Dyvenor Lakes. A salt water lake. In my studies early explorers knew of a inland sea. Perhaps they were looking for Dyvenor Lake which contained sufficient water to fill more than a thousand swimming pools.
My first view of a black swan almost took my breath away. Aborigines worked on this property and on a Sunday afternoon I went with an aboriginal friend to steal swan eggs from their nests. We gathered a dozen eggs from different nests. Before we boiled them, we placed them into a bucket of water to find how many were rotten. If they rose to the top, they were rotten. Ones on the bottom were eatable. Boiled and eaten almost immediately. The taste delicious and rich, twice the size of an ordinary chook egg.
People should pay to see this wonderland, I often told the others who worked with me. A team of fifty workers ranging from Manager, Overseer, Stockmen, Ringers and Station Hands. A variety of workers to operate one million acres of lush green Mitchell grasses and mulga scrub. A paradise in south-western Queensland unknown to the many visitors who didn't know the place existed.
I wanted to share with the world my discovery of outback Queensland with kangaroos, wild pigs, flocks of galahs in flight. Silence of bush surroundings. If one could bottle this stress free environment and sell across the globe, one would make a fortune.
Fancy living in a stress free environment, no traffic, no worries only rising in the morning to a glorious sunrise to go to bed at night with a wondrous sunset. Perfect in everyway. Out in the middle of nowhere, no telephones, communication of any type only the telephone exchange from the local post office forty kilometres west of the property. I wanted to shout my findings to the world.
I needed to wait another forty years before this portion of south-western Queensland to be discovered as glamorous, once the grey brigade rolled out across Australia to seek their own searches of places to visit. Now this portion of Australia has been discovered I'm pleased because although travel used to be glamorous, this portion of Australia needs all the visitors they can receive to boost tourism for their economy to keep small country towns in the west survive.
Word count: 727
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.

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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Fri Feb 20, 2015 1:38 am

Thank you for your concern in my absence. My old internet provider broke down and now I'm with a new provider. Thank you for your patience and concern and will continue posting a page daily of my latest novel. Here is an extract to keep you reading until new page tomorrow: 'Click Go The Shears' - "Click Go the Shears" is a traditional Australian folk song. The song details a day's work for a sheep shearer in the days before machine shears. The enduring popularity of this song reflects the traditional role that the wool industry has played in Australian life. The song describes the various roles in the shearing shed, including the "ringer", the "boss of the board", the "colonial experience man" and the "tar boy". After the day's shearing, the "old shearer" takes his cheque and heads to the local pub for a drinking session.
The tune is an adaptation of the American Civil War song "Ring The Bell, Watchman" by Henry Clay Work and the first verse follows closely, in parody, Work's lyrics as well.
The second verse in the original 19th century song is as follows:
Click goes his shears; click, click, click.
Wide are the blows, and his hand is moving quick,
The ringer looks round, for he lost it by a blow,
And he curses that old shearer with the bare belled ewe.
The usual chorus of the song is as follows:
Click go the shears boys, click, click, click,
Wide is his blow and his hands move quick,
The ringer looks around and is beaten by a blow,
And curses the old snagger with the bare-bellied yoe
In June 2013 it was discovered that a version of the song was first published in 1891 in the regional Victorian newspaper the Bacchus Marsh Express under the title "The Bare Belled Ewe" and the tune given as "Ring the Bell Watchman." It was next published in 1946 as a traditional song "collected and arranged" by Reverend Dr. Percy Jones, a professor of music. The lyrics vary widely; "bare-bellied yoe" (yoe is a dialect word for ewe) is often "bare-bellied joe" or even "blue-bellied ewe". The last line in the verse about the "colonial experience" man "smelling like a whore" is often bowdlerised to "smelling like a sewer" or completely rewritten. (From Wikipedia, the free encyclopaedia).
This book is a continuation from ‘The Shearer’ published by this author 2014.
TO READ MORE ABOUT PAT RITTER – AUTHOR: CLICK ONTO WEBSITE http://www.patritter.com.au.
Chapter 1

‘What have you done?’ Hannah shouted when Joe told his story. He’d changed identity to now become Joe Gibson instead of Joe Ryan as she’d known him. The real Joe Gibson changed clothes with him to take his place when police came to arrest him for inciting the shearers to go on strike. The real Joe Gibson arrested as Joe Ryan and the real Joe Ryan changed his identity to now become Joe Gibson. Hannah couldn't believe his words.
‘This may sound confusing to both of you but I’m now Joe Gibson. Not Joe Ryan. We changed clothes and he took my place. They were going to arrest me. I’d never see you again if I went to prison.’ Joe pleaded.
‘What happened to Joe. The other Joe – I mean.’ Hannah asked, confused, her temper slowly subsided, breathing slower to try and understand his story.
‘Constable Fitzgerald arrested him.’ Joe explained.
‘You can’t change your name. Just like that!’ Ma shocked to hear what Joe had done.
‘Do you want me to go to prison? He gave me his papers and everything I need to change to his name.’ His voice raised. He reached inside his coat, extracted papers and placed them on the kitchen table.
‘He’s a brave man to go in your place. A brave man indeed.’ Ma quoted. ‘This is not right. You can’t be someone you’re not. What happens if something goes wrong? You can’t stay here. I don’t want police coming around here. I can’t lie to them or anyone else.’ She answered sternly. Her face set in stone.
‘I’ll go then. What about you Hannah. Do you want me to go?’
‘I still love you. It’s not your ring any longer. Is it? You’ve changed Joe! I tried to see you at the camp when you were on strike and each time turned away not knowing how you were or if still alive. Honestly Joe, I don’t know!’ She sobbed.
Joe moved to her and placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. I will not bother either of you again. You keep the ring as a token of our love. I’ll move on.’
‘What about the other Joe. He’s in jail and no doubt will go to prison because of you and what you’ve done.’ Ma expressed in a stern angry voice. Disappointment covered her face. ‘I think it’s a good thing you leave Joe,’ her voice quivered. She stood and left the kitchen.
‘Here is your ring Joe,’ Hannah unclipped the necklace and handed both the necklace and ring to him. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ She sobbed, turned and walked away.
Joe scooped the papers from the kitchen table, gathered his things and left. He decided to cool down and think about the consequences of what his friend did. Relief washed over him knowing he wasn’t going to prison for he believed in his heart he did the right thing by his fellow shearers. Something needed to be done to make work conditions better and improve wages. Although ‘The Great Shearers Strike of 1891’ failed, it would go down in Australian history as an event to change conditions for his fellow shearers, he thought walking from Ma’s home.
His mind recalled the previous five months. Each moment thinking of different ways to convince his fellow shearers to keep going with their fight for justice. Alas, in the end even Joe gave up. Then his best mate Joe Gibson visited him in his tent to say the police were on their way to arrest him.
Joe Gibson decided to change identity and go in his place. They switched clothes and Joe Gibson handed Joe Ryan his identity papers and told him from that moment on he would be Joe Gibson and not Joe Ryan. Shortly afterwards he left the tent and arrested by Constable Fitzgerald, the police officer assigned to arrest Joe Ryan.
What should he do? Go to the police station and tell them they have the wrong person? Or do as Joe, his mate, wanted and get on with his life. His possessions consisted of swag, billy, two shillings, identification papers, and a membership card for the Non-Shearers Union in the name of Joe Gibson.
Instead of walking west to Eulo Joe headed north, I want to reach Barcaldine and carry on the work to give shearers improved working conditions and wages. His mind focused on these ideals. Camping on the bank of the Warrego River at the six mile, he undressed, jumped into the muddy brown coloured water to wash. After shaving his beard, he dressed in clean clothes.
Food was next. He’d survived in the bush more times than he cared to remember, snaring a rabbit, skinning and baking it over an open fire, fishing to catch a feed from the river. He’d do it again. He needed work, shearing. After unrolling his swag near a huge box tree he lay down and soon his mind drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Hannah and Ma sat across from each other at the kitchen table having breakfast, ‘Ma, this is terrible what happened yesterday. I never want Joe under this same roof again because he can’t be trusted.’
‘I agree,’ Ma spoke between eating. ‘I should go and speak to Sergeant Gray about what happened. They can’t lock up the wrong person.’
‘I’ll go Ma. I’d like to meet this person whose given his life for Joe. He must be truly brave.’
Hannah dressed after clearing the dishes and walked to the police station. Sergeant Gray stood behind the desk. ‘Good morning Hannah. You here to say goodbye to your boyfriend.’
‘If I may Sergeant. I’d like to speak with him.’ Hannah smiled.
‘Come this way. We’re taking him to Charleville where he’ll be escorted to Rockhampton to stand trial with the other leaders who caused the strike.’
Hannah followed the sergeant to a building at the rear of the police station. ‘I’ll allow you to speak with him on the veranda, not in the cell. Can’t allow him to be released. Don’t be too long. I’ll give you ten minutes to say your goodbyes.’ Sergeant Gray unlocked the veranda door to allow Hannah to walk along to the cell containing the prisoner.
‘Hello. Are you there Joe?’ Hannah whispered. She didn’t want to speak loud because she didn’t want any other person listening to their conversation.
‘Who’s there?’ A voice echoed from inside the cell.
‘Hannah. Hannah Young. Joe told me what you did. I wanted to tell you how brave and courageous you are.’
‘Is Joe alright?’
‘He’s gone. I couldn’t live with a person who allowed his best friend to do what you’ve done.’
‘I did it for you and Joe.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the way he always spoke about you both, wanted to get married and settle down. I did it for each of you.’ He repeated, sadness in his voice.
‘You are a brave person. What’s going to happen to you?’
‘Go to gaol. I’m not afraid. Never done anything like this in my life before. I wanted to help you and Joe.’
‘It didn’t help. I can’t be with a person I don't trust.’
‘Too late for that now. I’ll be right. Don’t worry.
‘I feel guilty this has happened to you.’
‘No. I’m the guilty one taking Joe’s place. You leave now because they’re coming to get me soon to go to Charleville. Thank you for coming. You're like Joe described.’
‘Isn’t there anything I can do? This is not right.’ Hannah pleaded.
‘Forget about me and get on with your life.’
‘Sorry for everything to turn out this way. Bye.’
No reply came from inside the cell. Hannah called to Sergeant Gray who opened the veranda door for her to leave.
‘Sergeant?’ Joe called from inside his cell.
‘Yes Joe.’ Sergeant Gray answered.
‘Would you give Hannah my horse and saddle while I’m away?’ He asked.
‘I can do that.’ Sergeant Gray replied.
‘Thank you Joe, I’ll take good care of your horse and saddle. They will be waiting for you when you return.’ Hannah replied with a smile in her voice.
Hannah didn’t know when Joe would return, if ever. She'd certainly take good care of his horse and saddle. Her memory flashed back to bushranger Billy Wells who held up the stagecoach north of Cunnamulla. At the time she was a passenger on the Cobb & Co stagecoach. Mr John Shirley another passenger whose occupation District Inspector for schools sat across from her. Mr Shirley not only saved her life also through his generosity offered her a position as assistant teacher at Cunnamulla State School.
She remembered Billy Wells, riding the same horse now belonging to Joe. Those blue eyes continued to pierce her soul. He wanted her necklace and ring from around her neck which Joe gave to her to show his love. Joe identified the necklace and ring the moment Billy Wells introduced himself at the Eulo Queen Hotel. Joe fought Billy Wells to retrieve Hannah's property.
Once the police arrived and arrested Billy Wells, Joe escorted the prisoner with the police to Cunnamulla. On the journey Joe purchased the horse and saddle for five quid from Billy Wells. She laughed at the thought, thinking about the present circumstances. She must’ve been a fool.
‘Miss Young, I’ll get you to sign for the release of the horse and saddle.’ Sergeant Gray's voice broke into her thoughts when she realised where she was.
‘Yes sergeant. Where do I sign?’
He handed her a nib and pen, ‘sign here please?’
Hannah signed at the spot.
‘I’ll show you where your horse is and here is the saddle and bridle.’ Sergeant Gray lifted the saddle from the floor, ‘I’ll carry them to your horse. Are you right to saddle the horse?’
‘I think I can handle the task. Thank you sergeant. Look after Joe.’
‘We will. Sorry about this.’
Hannah followed Sergeant Gray to the police paddock at the rear of the police station. ‘Hi boy, let’s get you out of there and take you home.’ Hannah placed the bridle over the horse’s head, slide the steel bit into the horse's mouth, fastened the chin strap, and folded the reins over her forearm. She lifted the saddle onto the back of the horse, secured the surcingle, and led him from the paddock. Normally she would’ve ridden him only for her dress. Wasn’t ladylike to ride a horse in the type of dress she wore.
‘Ma, come outside.’ She called when she led the horse around to the rear of the house.
‘Isn’t this Joe’s horse?’ Ma questioned frowning.
‘Yes. I went and spoke to Joe at the cells in the police station. I only heard his voice; he sounds a lovely person, quiet, solemn and sincere. He told Sergeant Gray to give me the horse and saddle.’
‘Did you tell Sergeant Gray about the right Joe Ryan?’
‘No – he’s not afraid to go to gaol and wants me to get on with my life. I told him Joe left.’
‘Isn’t this a right ole mess? You go to the police station to save an innocent man and return with a horse. I’m going to write to your grandmother to tell her the whole story. Might be a good idea for you to ride and tell your parents about Joe, in case he tries to get a job shearing on their property.’
‘I will Ma as soon I eat.’ Hannah attended to her horse and placed him in the paddock behind Ma’s house. She carried the saddle and bridle inside and placed them on the floor in the corner of the spare room used for bathing.
Ma went to her bedroom, gathered parchment, pen, nib and ink, sat on her bed and began to write her sister a letter:
TO PURCHASE THIS BOOK PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/497192.

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Re: Pat Ritter. Books

Postby patritter » Sat Feb 21, 2015 12:58 am

Thank you dub - great to be back: here is the page for today: 'Click Go The Shears'

My Dearest Sister Gloria,

I sincerely hope this letter finds you and George in good health. I think of you both often, praise the Lord how we were bought together at Christmas Dinner after many years of separation.
Hannah is doing well as a trainee school teacher and learning from Miss Wallace. With further training she should become a fully qualified teacher in three years.
People are flocking to live in Cunnamulla daily with children attending the local school. Hannah will make a fine teacher when her time finishes.
There is important news I need to tell you about Joe and Hannah. You no doubt know about ‘The Great Shearers Strike’ we’ve had here in Cunnamulla which finished yesterday. Joe was the leader of the men who set up a camp on the outskirts of this town.
TO PURCHASE THIS BOOK PLEASE CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/497192.

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