JaMiE BaKeR: fallout

On my trip back home to Australia I had many chances to reminisce with old friends and family members about childhood memories. Disturbingly, I discovered on more than one occasion that my memories were inaccurate.

One happy childhood memory concerns my favourite children’s book, THE MAGIC PUDDING. I remember being very young and my Dad reading to me from this book over the course of a few nights just before I went to sleep. In my memory he is sitting on the edge of my bed doing all the voices of the characters as he reads. At the end of each chapter he snaps the book closed, saying that the rest will have to be read NEXT time, and I eagerly look forward to the next instalment. This happy memory is one of the many reasons that I love the book. The only problem is that it didn’t happen.

I found out this past Christmas that my Dad has never even read the Magic Pudding. He was quite adamant about it. I could easily absorb the idea that he may have forgotten reading the book to me, after all he had seven children, but it is harder to ignore the fact that he has no memory of reading the most famous Australian children’s book that there is.

Where did this memory come from? Did someone ELSE read the book to me and I somehow confused them with my own Dad (unlikely) Or did I make the memory up myself? If that is true how many of my other memories are fictions? Not being able to trust your memories of your own life is a very disturbing sensation…

My blog-posting will be a bit spotty while I am travelling; I am not always able to get to the internet and when I do I am not always able to use my own laptop to upload new images.

This is a portrait of PLINY THE ELDER, used to illustrate a quote from his famous Naturalis Historia, which was part of the introduction to my Dad’s Elephant limerick book. (The pencil sketch for this illustration was posted earlier, HERE.) Nobody knows for sure what Pliny the Elder actually looked like, so my version of him was modelled on another classical scholar; my own Dad, who was, of course, the author of the limericks in our collaboration.

I gave my Dad’s new wife, WENDY, a framed 11×14 Giclee print of this image as a Christmas present. It went over very well with her because, unlike Dad, she understood that it was a caricature of him immediately. She wasn’t the only person that I gave artwork to; using my new Epson printer, I printed out a LOT of Giclee prints of my artwork and brought them home to Australia as easy-to-carry Christmas presents to give to my Family this year…

My family doesn’t get many opportunities to gather, now that we live at all points on the compass, but when we do manage to wrangle a family get-together, it is always a lot of fun, and this year’s Christmas was no exception. I had a wonderful time.

I hope that that all of you had a Happy Christmas, as well!

This is an illustration from my Dad’s Elephant book, for a limerick about a dual Elephant Wedding held at a Thai Elephant preserve.

My Father got married today in my home town, and I was his Best Man. For a laugh, I gave my speech entirely in Limerick. When HE finds the time to illustrate MY limericks, we’ll have our second collaboration ready to go. Despite the stresses of public speaking and the behind-the-scenes logistics of Wedding planning, it was a very happy day with lots of family and friends that I had not seen in years.

My Nephew JACK was 6 years old when he drew this pin-up of Rocket Rabbit, which he gave me while I visited his family in Maryland last year. It beats the hell out of any drawing I did at a similar age, and I can make the comparison because I still have a few of the pictures I drew when I was very little, although the paper they were drawn on is now brown with age.

Sometimes, people who don’t draw ask me “When did you start drawing?” In answer, I usually ask “When did you stop?” because every child draws. I just happen to be one of those who never stopped.

I believe that in MOST cases, the amount of time a child spends drawing, and more importantly enjoying drawing, is the key to artistic ability, rather than innate talent. Whether a child enjoys drawing enough to stay with it is not necessarily tied to their ability, at least in the beginning.

When looking at drawings by a group of 4 and 5 year olds, it is hard to predict which of the kids will become artists in future, and which will become accountants. In fact, the weaker drawings may actually be drawn by the kids who DO become artists later in life.

At around age 8 or 9, the difference in artistic ability becomes more obvious. This is when many children become frustrated at not being able to make their drawings look “real” and abandon drawing. Those who enjoy it, despite the frustration, keep drawing and the extra time spent scribbling makes a difference that you can see.

There are powerful reasons for children to move away from expressing themselves with pictures at that age. Consider that when we learn to read we move from picture books, to picture books with some words, then to novels with spot illustrations, and finally to books that are all text with no pictures at all. Thus, we are culturally conditioned to associate pictures with childhood and immaturity. Children are very concerned with “growing up” and so abandoning drawing can be a self conscious attempt to leave “childish” things behind.

The fact that our education system doesn’t place much importance on visual skills beyond kindergarten is another reason that many children give up drawing. At a similar age, we are being awarded prizes for academic and athletic achievement, so improvement in those areas (and overcoming the frustrations of your limitations) is rewarded. In my experience that was not the case with drawing, where the rewards were all purely personal.

On the other hand, the fact that drawing skill was not rewarded, or even acknowledged by “the system” was a large part of its appeal to me as a child. Making pictures was the only thing that gave me pleasure that wasn’t contingent on the opinions of team members, class mates or teachers. After about the age of 10, none of my other classmates drew, so it wasn’t a question of competing or being compared to anyone else. Drawing was something that I could do on my own, free from the judgements of others.

These days I draw to earn a living, rather than solely to amuse myself, as was the case when I was growing up. Sometimes it is hard to summon up that spirit of pure joy that drawing gave me as a child because my drawings are now tied to budgets and schedules, and bills, and generally bogged down in other mundane things… yes, even including the judgements of others that I was blissfully spared as a kid… But I think that my best work comes on those days when I can somehow find that childish attitude and pour it into a picture.

The year that I was six but turning seven years old, my family moved to a new town. I know very well that childhood memories are exaggerated, focusing as they do mainly on extreme situations most likely to leave an impression on us. Our powerful kiddie emotions, mixed with some facts, creates a cocktail that tastes of historical reality, but may be partly hallucinogenic…

With that caveat firmly in place, let me tell you how I remember the transition from my life in one community to the other. In the first, I am a debonair six year old fellow, a tiny man about town, surrounded by a multitude of friends who find me ever so witty, and capable. I am considered to be a great asset to any Primary-school birthday party and I even have a little girlfriend. My family then leaves this paradise, drives across 3 states and when I arrive at the new town I am transformed into a hopeless nong who can’t do anything right. It was as if we had packed everything in the car but had forgotten to pack my popularity, which was left behind (I wonder if someone else found it, laying abandoned, and used it, perhaps?)

I developed asthma and skin conditions and other outward manifestations of my inner turmoil. Worst of all, I was stricken by one of the worst cases of clinical Cry-Babyism ever seen by medical professionals in the New England Tablelands region of Australia. (I believe that my case is still cited in some medical texts even today).

The first breakthrough in my adjusting to this new hometown came along in the form of a jaunty little dog named JOCK. My parents rescued him from death-row at the local dog-pound and in exchange for this reprieve he agreed to do what he could to rescue me from my self-pity. Jock was a black and white mongrel, a mix of some terrier and perhaps some sheep-dog. With the wisdom of hindsight he probably wasn’t much to look at… but I was oblivious to that at the time because I loved him so. He was built low to the ground, with legs too short for his body and a body that was too short for his tail, which was curved up and held at a rakish angle; a furry little pirate brandishing his scimitar.

Even though Jock was small, he could keep up with me wherever we had to go. If I climbed over fences, he would too, or else find a way under them. Unlike many small dogs, he wasn’t afraid to jump in a swimming hole or go in the surf. He had the run of the neighbourhood and I don’t remember him ever being on a leash, he was out on his own recognizance most of the time.

When not with me, Jock ran with his own little pack of neighbourhood mutts. There were about 6 of them and they were all small to mid-sized dogs but none of them were “cute”. The overall effect that they made as they trotted about the place was that of a gang of teenage punks. There was something slightly roguish about them. They were up to no good.

Jock ostensibly slept outside in a space under the water-tank stand, but at night he would sneak into my bedroom through the window I had left open for him and actually sleep on my bed. He usually had the sense to make himself scarce in the mornings so as not to be caught there by my parents, who were of the “pets don’t sleep in the house” variety. He was a really fantastic dog for a little seven-year-old boy to have.

The Nasty Stranger

On our way home from an errand to the corner shop, Jock and I encountered a big, nasty looking dog that we had never seen around the neighbourhood before. He was the kind of dog that makes you nervous from the get go, and I could tell that Jock didn’t like the cut of this bugger’s clothes any more than I did.

They immediately began that circling, probing dance that dogs do when they first meet each other; backs tight and noses buried in each other’s resumes. I have always wondered what it is that they are looking for back there? What constitutes the difference between those times when you jam your nose in a stranger’s backside and become his best friend, versus those times when you both partake in this mutual examination, only to decide that you are deadly enemies?

Well, this particular tension-tango ended up being one of the “Let’s be enemies!” times. These blokes each saw something in the other’s philosophy that they simply could not abide…. and boy, IT WAS ON!

Where one second earlier there were two separate dogs, there was now only a writhing, biting, snarling tangle. A boiling dust cloud out from which flailed more paws, teeth and tails than seemed possible, like a fight in an animated cartoon. Except that this particular cartoon fight wasn’t making me laugh. These two dogs were really going at it, and I am sad to say that dear Jock wasn’t getting the best of the exchange of violence. He was battling every bit as fiercely as the bigger bloke, but was no match for his size.

The sound of a full blown, mutual-hate, no holds barred dog-fight is terrifying to begin with, but more so when one of the dogs is your best mate and worse still when he is the smaller of the two and getting a punishing.

Terrified that Jock would be killed, I was screaming and bawling and beside myself within seconds of this savagery getting under way. I dropped Mum’s shopping, picked up a stick and tried to get in there and hit the big bloke a couple of whacks, but this brawl was thrashing all over the place like a savage whirligig of fangs, fur and saliva.

Suddenly, Jock broke free of the melee and shot off like a rocket down the block, with the nasty big stranger in deadly pursuit. I took off after them as fast as my little-boy legs could go, but the dogs moved so fast that they had both disappeared around a corner before I had barely gone a few feet.

That run to the corner seemed to take forever; I simply could NOT get there fast enough. I was in a panic that the big bloke with his longer legs would catch up to Jock in no time. Sure enough, the most heart-wrenching howls came from the direction I last saw them go. I had felt physically inadequate many a time before, at school sporting events, but never wished harder for the power to run faster, than on this occasion. With hot tears streaming down my face I ran toward what was now a blood-curdling noise, an absolute cacophony of canine screams, yelps and whines.

The pitch of the terrifying sound that I was following then changed, it became more urgent, and louder. I suddenly realised that it was coming back in my direction rather than receding, as it had been before.

When I was almost at the intersection that I had been aiming for, the nasty big stranger came bolting around corner heading straight at me, and then right past me, howling and yowling, because hot on his heels were JOCK AND ALL HIS CREW!

Hah, Hah! I couldn’t believe it!

Take that, you nasty bastard! Oh yes, it was pure triumph, I tell you. The best thing I ever saw in my short life up to that time… and even amongst all the amazing things I have seen in the many years since, not much has topped it.

Have you ever gone from feeling the absolute worst you ever felt, to the best feeling of your whole life in the space of a few seconds? From the depths of despair to absolute elation; that was the dramatic surge of joyous emotion that lifted me up and carried me along, as I saw that evil big bugger chased into the distance by a vengeful mob of little dogs, led by my mate Jock!

As was the case before, the chase was very quickly beyond my line of sight, so all I had to go by was the howling, yowling sound-effects in the distance, but my knowledge that THIS time it was the baddie who was copping a drubbing made those once-horrible shrieks and howls now sound like sweet music to my ears. I hurried along after the sound as best I could and tried to imagine what may have been going on up there… It was the soundtrack to a swashbuckling pirate movie, starring an all dog cast. I was a little disappointed to be missing out on the climactic battle scene of this epic, but any anxiety for the safety of my little, furry, black-and-white mate was now completely gone.

I went back and found Mum’s shopping that I had earlier abandoned and sat on the curb and waited for Jock to come back. I thought on what a wiley old campaigner Jock was, to have led that gullible big buffoon into the trap he had so carefully laid for him.

Hah, hah! Who did that dumb punk think he was messing with? Didn’t he know whose stomping grounds he had trespassed upon? Well, he was getting some hard schooling on what-was-what at the moment, by God, so he was!

After a time, the hero of the day reappeared and accepted all my heartiest congratulations on his magnificent performance.

To my great surprise, I saw that he hadn’t been seriously wounded in the initial set-to with the bigger bloke. I considered the possibility that Jock had only been play-acting at losing the earlier brawl in order to trick that nasty bugger into running into an even worse walloping from his whole crew. Could it be? Ho, ho!

As we went home together, I decided that old Jock had just wanted to share amongst his friends the opportunity of thumping this interloper… I had always suspected that when Jock wasn’t playing the role of “pet” at our house, he was secretly a tough guy in the canine community, and now I was absolutely sure of it.

I remember very well trying to convey to the rest of the family over dinner that night, that in the time it took for Jock and me to go buy some milk and bread at the corner shop, Jock was the triumphant hero in an absolutely epic battle that ran the entire gamut of emotions, both human and canine. But even at the time, I was aware that I hadn’t done Jock’s story full justice when I told it on that particular night.

I hope I did a better job of it this time.

When I was a child, my Grandma let me stay up past my normal bedtime when she baby-sat me one night. I saw an episode of THE AVENGERS, and fell in love with EMMA PEEL. I was absolutely fascinated by this pretty lady, clad in catsuits and leather, who bashed the bone-marrow out of all the bad-guys. I had never seen anybody like her before and I couldn’t take my eyes off her when she was on-screen. Emma Peel was my first ever crush, many years before I was old enough to have any idea of what a crush even was.

Supposedly, I made a huge fuss on subsequent nights when my standard bedtime was enforced and I wasn’t allowed to see Mrs Peel kicking arse any more. Grandma tried to make amends by helping me write a letter, asking Emma to put her TV show on earlier, before my bedtime. I doubt very much that the letter was ever sent… but a few years later I was old enough to stay up late and watch the re-runs, anyway.

I recently bought some DVDs of this 1960s TV series, starring Patrick Macnee and Diana Rigg. It is a snap-shot of that time when everything coming out of Britain was automatically seen as being cool. The Avengers still plays well today, if partly undermined by other shows that have come along since, including many that THIS show inspired in the first place.

The martial arts fights that I had remembered as being so exciting, when I was a child, are hopelessly naff by today’s standards. We are now accustomed to seeing well choreographed action, and women in fight sequences aren’t a novelty any more, either; television has a different battle-babe for each night of the week. That wasn’t the case when Emma Peel hit the screen for the first time; she was a revolutionary character.

Though her “Karate Chop” style of fighting may look cheesy to some modern viewers, the character herself is every bit as charming as had I remembered. Even 40 years after Emma Peel first appeared on TV, there aren’t many characters to match her easy confidence, strength, book smarts, wry humour and sense of style.

The playfully platonic relationship between Emma Peel and John Steed holds up particularly well. It is still unusual, even today, for a man and a woman to have a long running screen partnership that doesn’t inevitably end in a romantic entanglement.

I should also mention that Emma Peel, as played by the incomparable Diana Rigg, is every bit as beautiful as I had remembered her, maybe even moreso.

Recently there were ELEPHANTS IN THE NEWS book launches in both hemispheres, North and South. Dad launched the Elephant book (plus another book he has just written) at the official book launch in my home-town in Australia. The photo here is courtesy of my Aunty Marg who was instrumental in getting the book published, as it was she who who introduced my Dad to the publisher. Without that introduction the book would have been self-published, Black and White, and a mere shadow of the beautifully printed book it eventually became. So thanks, Aunty Marg!

The Northern hemisphere “launch” took place two days later, when I sold the Elephant book to attendees of the APE convention here in San Francisco (photo by Jeff Pidgeon). By a funny quirk of fate, my neighbour-exhibitor was Ryan from ELEPHANT EATER PRESS so I made sure to stack my elephant books as far from his table as possible to prevent my stock from being eaten before I could sell it. I am happy to say that the stampede of Elephant sales made this particular APE my best yet, financially speaking. Sadly, I had no booth-buddy this year as Rhode was at a wedding. Last year he missed Wondercon to attend a wedding, so if the pattern persists, NEXT year he will miss Comic-Con because of a wedding…

It better be HIS wedding next time. I’m just sayin’…

Even though I was running the table solo, I was far from lonely. At one point on Saturday a fellow, who I had never even laid eyes on before, came up to my table earnestly chewing away at a bowl of candy. After a pause, to swallow whatever tasty treat was in the bowl, he demanded a FREE HUG. When I told him that there may be someplace at APE where he could get himself a hug, but my table certainly wasn’t the place, he went away, with a confused look on his face, still chewing on his candy. A few minutes later he gave ME something to chew on when he returned holding the official APE handbook, opened to the Exhibitors page, and pointed to the listing for our table. It said “Abismo/Nerve Bomb, events: FREE HUGS. NO PURCHASE NECESSARY.” Well, this was news to me as I had not filled out the paperwork myself for this particular convention. Rhode and I take turns on that… and this year it was HIS turn.

Next year when it IS my turn I will get him back somehow for these double-punk cheeky shenanigans…. Any ideas for creative-payback? Please add comments below (The winning suggestion gets a FREE HUG).

Without a table-partner, I had to be strategic with my breaks and I didn’t have the chance to walk around and do any shopping. Thankfully, some great books were brought right to me as I sat there. Jennifer Chang and EunJu Lee were first time exhibitors at APE this year and both had made some SWEET mini-comics that I was lucky enough to get copies of. Jennifer’s book stars KITOSAN the food-obsessed little character who was in her AFTERWORKS piece, this time he is showing us how to make TEA.

Blair Kitchen hooked me up with the first two issues of his hilarious goofy-hero comic, THE POSSUM! He isn’t a parody of another hero, he is gifted with his OWN truly silly super power and the comedy comes from him making the best of it. If you like action-comedy comics then take a look at this book full of chuckles and beautifully kinetic action sequences.

Drive-In theatres are fondly remembered for providing teenagers with both a cover story (a trip to the movies) and a relatively private place (a car) for their furtive, mutual anatomical research. But they were also frequented by families with small children. Before the ages of video and DVD, a drive-in theatre was where parents could see movies without having to feel self-conscious about their bawling kids. No need for a baby sitter for the tiny ones, just bring them along. Sealed off in your (more or less) soundproof bubble you weren’t likely to bother the other patrons, who were probably families themselves, or teenagers who had more pressing things (ie; the pressing of “things”) on their minds. But you could easily bother each other, cooped up in there during a double bill of “Blue-Beard’s Ghost” and “Herbie the Love Bug”. With all the bickering and crying and spilled drinks and whatnot there was often as much tragedy and comedy and drama in the car, as on the screen.

I remember going to the drive-in to see family films when there were little babies in our family (and I was small myself). In particular I was very affected by seeing “BAMBI” when I was 5 years old. My brother Jo was still a small baby and provided his own vocal accompaniment from the front seat where he was attended to by my Mother, already pregnant with next brother, Rob (who would be along to help out with the yodelling chores in a few months). Despite the occasional noise, and being treated to moments of SENSE-AROUND when baby-bro had to have his underthings changed right there in front of me, I was very much engrossed in what was going on up on the screen.

Like a lot of children, the death of BAMBI’s Mother affected me very deeply and I’m absolutely sure that I added my own blubbering to the general commotion within our car at that point. Parents sometimes like to shield their kids from such raw emotions, but this moment of tragedy is a big part of one of my most powerful early-childhood memories. And it wasn’t over yet, BAMBI was about to affect me in perhaps an even more powerful way; it was while at the drive-in watching “Bambi” that I realised that this film was somehow different to other movies… IT WAS DRAWINGS… Moving and talking and seeming to be alive… and then seeming to be killed… drawings making me feel both happy, and then sad. The tears of anguish were barely even dry on my face before I started to wonder how this could be so…. What kind of magic was this? I could not grasp how it was possible for these drawings to be alive. It was a singular moment; I was both pulled into and popped out of, the movie at the same time.

I had always liked cartoons, but never thought about how they were made, in fact I don’t think that I had ever thought about how ANY movies were made until this moment watching Bambi at the Drive-In theatre in Hobart. If I had thought about it at all, I probably thought that films were documentaries and the events on-screen were really happening (Reality TV in today’s parlance). But the realisation that this film was made of drawings made that idea an impossibility. Mum and Dad now had their hands full. Baby on the one hand and on the other, a 5 year old who needed some answers. They both did their best to explain the rudiments of the animation process, but it seemed completely unbelievable. Tiny drawings? What? How? I wasn’t apt to take their explanations at face value either; I hadn’t forgotten the great lengths they had taken to try and dupe me with that Santa Claus nonsense (which I never believed in for a moment, much to the great disappointment of my Mother). You never knew what kind of hokum grown ups were going to put over on you next….

Behind our car at the back of the drive-in, in the same building as the snack bar, there was a tiny window allowing patrons to peek into the projection booth. In an attempt to convey the truth of the animation process to me, my Dad lifted me up high enough that I could see in. I watched a big machine spool out a long shiny ribbon that passed through a ray of light, sending a flickering beam out through the main window and onto the huge screen, in front of which our family car was parked, under the night sky. I was told that there were thousands of hand drawn little pictures on that strip of film and through some process as yet beyond my ability to comprehend, they looked alive when put through the projector and light went through them.

It sounded like some kind of magic to me and even If it wasn’t “real” magic then it was clearly the next best thing. The sense of wonder from that night stayed with me for quite some time; certainly long enough to get me into the animation industry. I can still conjure up a ghost of it even now after 25 years in the biz.

These days of course, people don’t need to go to Drive-In movies. You can watch whatever you like, and whenever you like at home on your groovy big-screen home entertainment centre, or for that matter just go ahead and take the tiny kids to the multiplex, no problem. Nobody is going to hear them over the all cellphone chit-chat anyway.

When I was four, or maybe five years old, My uncle John (who was nine or ten at the time) was showing me around my Grandparents’ place, which was where he lived but not a place that I was yet familiar with. At this stage in the family history I think that my Uncle John (till recently the youngest in the Baker clan) was relishing the fact that there was finally a smaller Baker than him, and another child to play with.

Some people may wonder how it is that my uncle is only a few years older than me and was a childhood playmate. So perhaps I should pause the story to illuminate some of the peculiarities of huge clans, for all you “only-childs” out there.

I am the oldest child of a big family (7 children) but at the time and place that I grew up (rural Australia in the 1970s) big families seemed the norm rather than the exception. It wasn’t until I left my home town and moved to the city to work that I realised that families with less than 4 kids even existed. A feature of huge families is that the oldest child of parents who are themselves oldest children, and started their own parenting young (as was the case with both my parents) may have an Aunt or Uncle who is only a few years older. I have one of each; my Aunty Mary (only four years older than me) on my Mother’s side, and my Uncle John (five years older than me) on my Father’s side. Because of the minimal age difference between us they often felt like my older siblings more than anything else, and some of my earliest memories of playing with other kids were of playing with my Aunt and Uncle.

Once again, I took this for granted in my childhood but have come to learn that it seems hillbilly-esque to people not familiar with the syndrome. So you big city sophisticates can by all means imagine the rest of the story playing out with banjos and fiddles on the soundtrack if you must.

OK, back to the yarn:

One day, in his new role as an older, wiser, and bigger human being, Uncle John showed me how to climb up onto the roof of Pop’s shed. I was a cautious child (perhaps because the memory of my run in with the telegraph pole was still embossed into my consciousness) but somehow, through that powerful combination of encouragement and ridicule that all small boys (and many grown men) use to motivate each-other to do dangerous things, Uncle John got me to climb up on the roof with him. We pottered about for a minute or two until we either got bored or, more likely, till Uncle John realised that we might cop some heat if older members of the clan spotted us up there. Whereupon he nimbly climbed back down.

As I watched him descend, it dawned on me that I was now looking down at the ground from a long way up, perhaps the highest vantage point I had ever achieved until that time, and whatever nerve I had used to scale those heights suddenly failed me in the attempt to get back down. This time however, Uncle John’s encouragement couldn’t budge me and his harangues only reduced me to tears.

When he saw me on the verge of a wholesale hysterical bawling session, Uncle John quickly realised that it was in his own best interests to both calm me down and then get me down, before any grownups spotted tragic little Mr. Trembly-lip up there. It would be obvious to the powers-that-be whose idea the climb had been, and even if this didn’t occur to the inquisition immediately, it was a dead certainty that I would rat him out if I was put to the rack. So, after encouraging me not to bawl out loud, Uncle John promised that he knew a way to get me down safely, and ran inside the house.

Crouching nervously at the edge of the roof awaiting my rescue, I became steadily convinced that Uncle John had abandoned me. After what seemed like forever, he re-appeared from the house and ran back over to the shed, brandishing Grandma’s umbrella. He threw it up to me and suggested that I use it as a parachute, much as Charlie Chaplin or Mary Poppins might do in a film. This struck me as pure genius. We both had complete confidence that this plan would work, I know that I certainly did, anyway. It wasn’t the ambitious vision of taking flight that some children succumb to at a similar age. No, it was the much more believable expectation that I would surely fall, but do so with grace. Why, I should be able to step off the roof and glide gently to earth, touching down nimbly on the tips of my toes!

With that charming vision clear in my mind, and with the greatest of calm, I stood up, popped the umbrella open and confidently stepped out into space…

The umbrella promptly turned inside out, and I plummeted to the ground like a child-shaped stone trailing a black ribbon. I believe that some part of my anatomy was sprained upon its high-velocity contact with the ground, and a piercing yowl ensued, quickly followed by a convergence of angry elder Bakers; precisely the sort of ballyhoo that Uncle John was trying to avoid…

Frankly, that part of the memory is rather a blur to me now, I have no recollection of whether the truth or some artful fabrication was entered into the public record, but the latter would be my guess. All I remember from that point onwards, is the encounter with my old friends; pain and embarrassment, but also something new; the violent disconnect between my absolute faith in what SHOULD happen and what actually DID happen.

This was a brutal lesson in the supremacy of the Laws of Physics over Cartoon Logic for somebody who was to become a cartoonist later in his life.…

Almost a year ago I posted the sketch that formed the basis for this illustration. The book contains a limerick that references a beauty pageant held each year in Thailand for bigger ladies (to raise money for elephant conservation) known as the MISS JUMBO QUEEN PAGEANT.

The latest news about the ELEPHANT book is that it is finished being printed in China and is now being shipped to Australia for its April release down there. While I was busy finishing the illustrations on this book, my Father actually wrote a SECOND book (about a famous Australian racehorse called PHAR LAP) that will be released at around the same time by the same publisher. I hear that my Dad is already being lined up for radio interviews as part of a double-pronged PR blitz for the two books in Australia and New Zealand.

More news as it comes to hand!