DICKIE LARSEN'S PUMPKIN & OTHER STORIES BY GEOFF CARR

Promotional and author interview by Stef on behalf of Coven Press 

Geoff Carr is one of those once-in-a-lifetime writers. Sharp-witted, dry-humoured and with a mischievous glint in his eye that makes him seem much younger than he is, he sits at the head of the boardroom table with quiet authority. But, there’s a softness to him. Behind the ex-schoolteacher-and-principal facade is a man full of stories. Stories from a time before television, before mobile phones and electronics; stories of a time when kids played outside, unsupervised, thriving. He recalls those moments fondly. 

Carr grew up in the Wimmera town of Stawell, with a childhood staged amongst the blue-tinged silhouettes of the Grampians and Black Ranges. He tells us with a smile how he spent every waking moment of his childhood in the bush – rabbiting, fishing, exploring with his family and his best friends. His memories are vivid, cheeky, his humour cut so dry that his daughter, Narelle – who orchestrated this meet-up – shakes her head at him and rolls her eyes. 

So, why now? Why publish these stories now? 

Geoff looks down at his hands for a moment. They face up like they’re holding something. He then looks at Narelle and simply says: “I want to hold my physical book.” Each word he’s written is a memory. A prayer for those who’ve passed. A tribute to a life filled with friendship, mischief and the quiet magic of Australiana. He tells us he wrote to process his own grief, to remember and – half-jokingly – because he needed to fill fifteen minutes of silent reading time for his students. 

Dickie Larsen’s Pumpkin & Other Stories is unlike anything I’ve read before. It feels like a eulogy – not a sombre one, but more in the way you might catch up with friends from years gone, with a beer in hand, and swap stories and laughter and tears. It’s filled with absurdity, heartbreak, humour and a quiet reverence that never quite leaves, even long after you’ve finished reading it. These aren’t just stories; they’re lived-in moments, softened by age and nostalgia and celebratory for the joy of having truly known someone.
Among that, Carr gives us – the reader – something precious: the gift of sharing. These are no longer just his memories – they’re ours. And in that act of sharing, the people and characters and souls and memories tied up within these stories live on. They continue to exist beside him and now, beside us. 

Carr’s writing is effortlessly warm. It’s funny without being flippant, sad without self-pity and whimsical without indulgence. His narrator – Spike, a pseudonym for Geoff himself – is cheeky, brave, doubtful and dramatic. His friends, Riddy and Leany, based on his real-life childhood friends who have since passed, are unforgettable. There is no doubt in my mind they’re looking down at Geoff now proud.
Because at its heart, Dickie Larsen’s Pumpkin & Other Stories is a celebration of youth, mischief and loyalty. The phrase “boys will be boys” applies here in its truest intention: innocence. This is a collection of stories about silly antics, harmless trouble and friendships forged. From toilet-gate to derailing a funeral with a goat-cart (yes, really), each story, each escapade, is a testament to affection that radiates around all those who’ve filled Geoff’s world. 

Some of these stories make you laugh. Others make you cry. But no matter what they make you feel, at their core they are stories about love. Carr never uses the word “love” but it’s everywhere – quietly expressed through nicknames, dry humour, teasing and subtle phrasing. You know the phrase “to be loved is to be seen” – I think Geoff Carr sees a lot.  His upbringing, filled with positive male representation and role models, clearly shaped him into the man he is today: generous, kind and sensitive. You can see that softness now in how he interacts with his daughters – even as they argue about whether or not to put his photo headshot in the book. 

In Old Rose, Spike’s Aunty Dot comes to visit, and chaos ensues when Spike and his ragtag friends decide to prank her. Carr’s descriptions are hilarious: Aunty Dot’s face resembles “a wrinkled onion” and she’s known for carrying an  “alligator-skin bag to match her complexion.” In Gladiata (the result of asking boys how to write gladiator without knowing how to spell), Spike’s father emphasises the dichotomy between man and boy. He accidentally convinces the boys to goat race, retelling tales from his own youth, while simultaneously shaking his head at “What will the kids today think of next?” as though he wasn’t the one to give them the idea. 

My personal standouts? Collingwood, The Fifties and Through Coloured Windows. 

Collingwood opens with possibly my favourite first line in the history of first lines: “Dad called the stray cat Collingwood, because it was black and white, had one eye and appeared rather dense.” It’s a story of chaos, escalating misadventure and Spike narrowly escaping being “killed” by his father after some foul play with a turkey and some fireworks. Every time I thought, surely it can’t get any worse, it did – and in the most exciting, delightful and mortifying ways.

Through Coloured Windows shattered my heart. But its poignancy was in how I saw – really saw – Geoff Carr as the man behind the stories. A story around nature, death and quiet grief, it for me explains the crux of why Carr writes, and where nostalgia crystalises into meaning. It made me mourn a life I never lived, and made me grateful to peek behind the curtain of someone else’s life and memories and reminded me of the persistence of memory. More than that, it was a story about the worship and celebration of life, and days separated from it. I’m still reeling from its rawness.

The Fifties, the only poem in the book, is the perfect overture, setting the tone that echoes truths from the past, because at the end of the day “all that remains are vivid memories.” Its simplicity, longing and wonder prompts a sense that we’re being shown a world that we’ve somehow missed out on. 

Reading the stories in Dickie Larson’s Pumpkin & Other Stories by Geoff Car feels like waking up at 5 a.m. to watch Charlie Brown. Spike, Riddy and Leany could be those beloved Peanuts characters – lovable, flawed, funny and deeply familiar. There’s a comfort in that, being invited into the inner sanctum of someone’s past life. 

As an outsider looking in, I felt honoured to spend time with these stories. Reading Dickie Larsen’s Pumpkin & Other Stories feels like being entrusted with someone’s history, where their memories, frozen in time, thaw out to be celebrated and remembered. These stories, while fictionalised, are far from fiction;  they’re lived, remembered, loved and now shared. 

And that’s the real gift of Geoff Carr’s story collection: its power to make you laugh, mourn and, most of all, feel like you were there too.