Celebrating 25 years of Frances Whiting’s columns

Frances Whiting has been writing her column for The Sunday Mail for an extraordinary 25 years now. Today we mark that achievement with a 16-page souvenir liftout. DOWNLOAD HERE.

Frances Whiting has been writing her column for The Sunday Mail for 25 years. Picture: Mark Calleja

Well, here we are, who’d have thunk it?

Not me, 25 years ago when I was a young girl of just 20 – be quiet, I could have been – to write a “short piece” about my deep and abiding love for the Ekka, in particular, its Tasmanian “hot chipped potatoes”. This was a very fancypants way of saying “hot chips”, by the way, but either way, they were delicious.

What I did not know back then was that from that week on I would be writing a “short piece” of between (depending on the editor, I’ve seen a few come and go) 300 to 700 words every week for the next quarter of a century.

Let’s just all take a moment here to feel very old.

Anyway, if I had known that, well first of all I would have asked for a great deal more money, but mostly I would have been astounded.

Astounded that this weekly sprinkling of a few hundred words would become that most cherished of things for a writer, a regular column. But it would become something so much more than that.

One of Frances Whiting’s first headshots at The Courier Mail two decades ago. Picture: David Hele

Somewhere between that very first paragraph and this one, it became the conduit of one of the most great and abiding friendships of my life. Between us. Between you and me. Between you and me and Stan and Pip Berry, and Keith Bayliss, and Pat McCarthy and Peter and Glenda Ebert and all the other regular readers who became regular writers, part of a Queensland wide penpal club I had no idea I was starting.

A long, 25-year conversation with all the people who write and begin their letters with “Long term reader, first time writer”, or “Dear Franny – May I call you Franny?”, or every now and again “Hello, old friend”.

Frances Whiting reading handwritten letters from her readers.

Readers who tell me their stories, sharing their good times and their hard ones. The birth of a child, the death of a partner, all the beginnings and endings of life’s most important moments.

The two young women who delightedly asked me to attend their wedding when same sex marriage became legal.

The cattle farmer from Diamantina who made a carved white beech pen holder that has now sat on my desk for 17 years.

The members of the Darling Downs crochet club who made both my newborn babies a beautiful blanket.

All of you who sent letters of condolences when my father, Paul Whiting, and my brother, Michael Whiting died.

People who understand my obsession with Colin Firth and helpfully send me regular updates on his whereabouts/upcoming movies/marital status.

People like Annette Archibald, whose daughter became the chief-of-staff to the Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, a few years ago. When Annette met the newly minted president a short time after, she duly presented him with the column I had written about him to autograph. Which she had brought with her all the way from Australia. Laminated. The one with the rose between his teeth, as illustrated by Jonathan Bentley.

Illustrator extraordinare Jonathan Bentley.

Aah, Jonathan Bentley – you didn’t think I’d forget to mention my partner in crime, did you?

Jonathan Bentley whose pictures make my words bounce off the page and into people’s hearts because his own is almost as big as his imagination.

You know, people ask me three questions about this column all the time. They are, in no particular order, as follows: Do you have a favourite column? No, but I was pretty happy with the one that resulted in Arnott’s sending me boxes and boxes of Tim Tams.

Is it hard coming up with a column idea every week? You have no idea.

Why do you think your column has lasted so long? Well, a huge part of that is Jonathan’s pictures, and the truth is this column wouldn’t have anywhere near the same impact it does without them.

Thank you, my dear friend.

Rory Gibson, who Fran has shared a page with for more than a decade.

And a shout-out too, to my work husband Rory Gibson, who I have now shared a page with for more than 11 years, despite the fact that never stops whining about how my column is so much bigger than his. I’ve told him time and time again that size doesn’t matter, but he just won’t listen.

Now, the other reason I think this column has lasted so long is a trickier one for me to answer, but I’ll have a red hot go.

I have always believed that the things that unite us are far stronger than the things that divide us.

That the great majority of us are far more interested in the things we have in common rather than the things we don’t. That we are curious about each other. That we wish each other well.

So, since that very first column, those are the things I have written about. I have no interest in writing inflammatory remarks. I have no interest in pointing fingers at those who look different to us. I have no interest in cheap shots. And I have no truck with people who do.

Francis Whiting with her mother Shirley Whiting recently. Picture: David Clark

My father taught me inclusivity. My mother taught me manners. And you have all taught me that we really are all in this glorious, messy, exhilarating, devastating, puzzling, fascinating and wondrous world together.

When it became apparent that this was to be a regular thing, a long-term affair rather than a casual fling, the brief I was given was a simple one: Make people smile every Sunday. I hope I have done that for you. You certainly have for me.

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