​​​"Sitting today with the hot memories from very distant boyhood. Of Adelaide sweltering, waiting through a baking day with the winds pouring hot from the hills, eager for that first relieving whisper of an evening sea breeze.

I remember the houses of elderly relatives, locked down tight from early morning. They knew the drill: welcome the evening air then close the place down. Pull the curtains, shut the doors and windows tight. The long canvas rolled blinds came down to shade in porches, the bottom wooden bar secured with a buckled strap of leather to a metal loop in the polished concrete floor.

Come midday these homes were comparatively cool burrows, dark, a little airlessly close, the occasional chilled bottle of Woodroofe’s lemonade produce from a fridge that spilled light into a deeply shaded kitchen.

There’s a misty memory of one place, one aunt or another, where the entry hall was halved by a thick velvety drape a metre two inside the front door. You parted this curtain like an arras to move into the back of the house. I remember coming in off the street, that vivid, heat-whitened spread of concrete and tar, stepping through the iron and galvanized wire gate in a tall hedge, and then into the house and its overlapping sequence of slowly cooling shades.

I did the same from memory and instinct today as Melbourne set itself for an afternoon that might peak at 45 degrees. It was a lovely morning of soft cool air; hard to imagine what would follow, but by noon we’d reached 36 and climbing. No aircon here, so we darkened the house, closed off the furnace of the outside world.

The morning news reports carried an almost triumphalist air: heat records! Hottest ever! Hottest place on earth! Not a whisper, of course, of the long causal chain that has brought us here, of climate change, coal and culture war. Ouyen, 50 degrees! Punching above our weight.

I struggle to reconcile this heat with the heat of childhood memory. There’s an edge of extremity I guess, but also the modern overlay of cause and effect. These days seem no longer innocent, we’ve tampered with the blamelessness of nature. Now the heat carries with it the weight of its anthropogenic extremity and the promise of what is yet to unfold.

But I wonder too whether we’ll meet that future with this same sense of constant present, of events like today arriving from a cloudless nowhere. It feels like the pattern: meeting each gathering crisis with no thought for how and why. Some of that is wilful, some of it wishful. None of it is likely to lead to nostalgic reverie half a century on."

Jonathan Green
'Other Green Worlds' Substack post,
January 27 2026

​'Education of a Princess' A memoir by Marie, Grand Duchess of Russia 1931

What a story!

Marie was born in 1890. ‘I am told my public entrance into the world was made in a golden coach drawn by three pairs of white horses. The coach was surrounded with mounted hussars in scarlet uniform. I was on my way to the Winter Palace for my christening.
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A year later, Marie’s mother died giving birth to her brother Dmitri, who became her closest friend for the next 26 years. She grew up with two English nannies and various tutors. Her father remarried when she was twelve but, because he had married a commoner, he was not allowed to live in Russia. Marie and Dmitri went to live with their uncle. Each year they travelled around visiting the Emperor, their grandmother and an aunt who was a nun.
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In 1904 war with Japan was declared. At first, the war was taken lightly but as months passed without Russia achieving a single victory, the war became unpopular. Marie’s uncle was against the political position of the government and they found their lives in danger. Not long after, her uncle was assassinated.

Their aunt was not nearly as kindly disposed towards the two young people and organized a visit from a Swedish prince. The day after they had met, the aunt called 16-year-old Marie into her room, asked her what her impression of the prince had been. “Prince William came here to make your acquaintance. He likes you and wants to know whether you would consent to marry him.” Marie was shocked. In the end, she reluctantly agreed.

At her request, she waited until she was eighteen, married in Russia with the Emperor giving her away, and moved to Sweden. She had diligently learned Swedish but could never lose her love for Russia. Marie and her husband had a baby son and travelled widely, but after five years, Marie could not remain in her present position. She returned to Russia without her son and the marriage was annulled.

Where was she to go from here?

Unbelievably, into a Red Cross uniform and in charge of a field hospital. The First World War had begun and Russian recruits surged forward – so many that there was not enough artillery for all the volunteers. Dmitri was already an army officer. Russia, with British and French allies, was fighting Germany.

For a couple of years, Marie found a new life. She knew nothing about ordinary people, first aid only from her brief training, but she was determined to learn. Amazingly, she describes this time as the happiest in her life.

However, time passed, troops became dissatisfied, Rasputin had wormed his way into the life of the Empress and there was much unrest, much of it due to the politics of the same Rasputin. Word came that he had been murdered. Two young men had believed that was the only way to deal with the turmoil. Dmitri was one of them. He was banished from his country.

But things didn’t quieten down. From then on, Marie was fleeing from one place to another. She was no longer safe in the hospital, the upper classes were being killed and the revolution took over.

Marie remarried and she and her husband eventually left Russia, again leaving a little son behind with grandparents. The bravery and the quick-wittedness of Marie, her husband and brother-in-law enabled them finally to get, via Ukraine and Odessa, on a ship to Roumania.

I was impressed by this book because of the honesty of the account of a life which had very few satisfying episodes. Marie’s closeness to her brother was her anchor. Even after she married, he visited Sweden regularly, as did he in the field hospital. His banishment after the death of Rasputin, happened in the midst of utter turmoil.

To be able to write this book fifteen years after escaping Russia was a fine achievement.



Carmyl Winkler
May 2024

Over the Christmas of 2021, I read The Tattooist of Auschwitz, a memoir penned by New Zealand author, Heather Morris. Heather, now a resident of Australia was introduced to an elderly gentleman, Lale Sokolov in 2003 after being told that he “might just have a story worth telling”. It was a meeting that proved life-changing for both Heather and her subject Lale. The Tattooist of Auschwitz traces the incredible story of survival which challenges the reader to ask, what length’s would you go to to survive?

Originally, Lales's story was told as a screenplay which was lauded at several international competitions. Heather then reshaped the story into her debut novel. In documenting Lale’s story Heather has captured the internal battle of a man who sees his survival in the Nazi death camps as an ultimate triumph over Hitler's evil mission to eliminate the Jews and other minority groups. Heather’s talent for piecing together Lale’s memories of his time at Auschwitz is extraordinary. The reader can only imagine how fragile the elderly man’s recollection may have been. Heather proved to be an excellent listener, clearly winning Lale’s trust as he shares his intimate thoughts with the reader.

Elements of Lale’s story resonated strongly with me. My mother-in-law was a Polish War Orphan. Hania (Anna) never really told her story to her family, I imagine this was because the story she lived was painful. I met Hania (Anna) after I had met and fallen in love with her eldest child, James. We didn’t meet each other until our engagement was announced, and she was saddened to lose her eldest son to another woman. We never became friends. She was a difficult woman to get to know, mostly because she suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, and struggled with many aspects of daily life. She was, however, devoted to her three children.

In 2015 I began the process of discovering Hania’s story so that I could facilitate my husband and older children applying for their Polish Citizenship. I was not prepared for the story I was about to learn.

In 1939, following German and Soviet attacks on Poland (see Polish September Campaign), the territory of the Second Polish Republic was divided between the two invaders. Eastern Poland was annexed by the Soviet Union, and soon afterwards Moscow began a program of mass deportations. Hundreds of thousands of Polish citizens were forced to leave their homes and were transported to Siberia, Kazakhstan, and other parts of the Soviet Union. There were several waves of deportations during which whole families were sent to different parts of the Soviet Union.

The fate of the deported Poles improved in mid-1942, after the signing of the Sikorski–Mayski agreement. An Amnesty for Polish citizens in the Soviet Union was declared. The Anders' Army was formed. Between March 24 and April 4, 33,069 soldiers left the Soviet Union for Iran, as well as 10,789 civilians, including 3,100 children. Thousands died along the way to Iran mostly due to an epidemic of dysentery, which decimated men, children and women. Hania’s parents were just two of so many that died before the family reached safety. In September 1944, the orphaned children were loaded onto warships and transported to New Zealand, Canada and South Africa. Hania and her sisters and brother were sent to New Zealand.

Along my journey to understand my mother in law, I came into the possession of a copy of a handwritten record of the children’s lives before the war and their subsequent deportation to Serbia, journey to Iran and new life in New Zealand. The story that Hania’s sister tells is of simple people surviving in extraordinary times. It details the evil that can exist when people in power seek to fulfil their diabolical manifesto on the innocent.

Lale’s survival has a familiar story, a noticeable difference being that his captors were German. Like Hania, Lale had no inkling of the fate that awaited him when he was first ordered onto transport that would take him to the death camp. Once there, his existence relied on his capacity to live one day at a time, and his will to survive. Indeed, Lale saw his survival as a sure sign of his captors' defeat. He tells his story without judgement, occasionally hinting at the hatred he felt toward the German guards and camp officials.

Stories like Lale and Hania’s have been told and retold. Each time the horror that mankind can inflict such depravity on each other tests our understanding of the world. How can such evil exist? What causes one man to turn against another with such deadly consequences? How does the human spirit survive?

As I read the book I felt that Lale was willing me to examine my capacity for compassion. He challenged me to judge the actions he took to survive Auschwitz kindly. After all, how would we know what lengths we would go to just to survive?


Michelle Aitken
May 2022

A memoir which meant something to me...

I found myself, after reading Susan Duncan’s memoir, ‘Salvation Creek’, in 2006. 

​It was a time of feeling loss and emptiness in my life – possibly “Empty Nest Syndrome”.  Family had married and moved on.  Mid-life transition.  Romantic fluctuation.  Domestic changes.

Whatever the cause, I sensed a need for change.  I was searching for a new direction.

One day at the library I picked up ‘Salvation Creek’, knowing nothing about it, except the title. 

I think the word ‘Salvation’ was the trigger.  I needed salvation from my life. 

This book had it all for me, beginning with Susan, the author, relating her own loss.  The death of her brother and husband within a few months of each other, how she needed new horizons, how she risked everything to relocate herself, to start over.  Salvation with a challenge.

Sometime after reading her story, I found my own challenges for change and embraced the opportunity to move forward.

I joined new groups to find new interests and new friends.  Garden Club, Probus, U3A, Book Club at the library.

Life became full and busy again – being part of community in retirement, meeting new people, everybody has a story.
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I found my story had a new beginning.
 
Moira Beckinsdale,
May 2021

​The Road from Coorain by Jill Ker Conway was a memoir I first read about ten years ago. In many ways it has no relevance to my life, however I loved it. This could best be described of a memoir of an Australian childhood.
 
The first part of the book is set in the western plains of New South Wales where Jill spent the first ten years of her life. Her home was Coorain – a local Aboriginal name meaning “Windy”.
Her parents moved there in 1930 after her father William Ker had built a house on a block of 18,000 acres. There was a severe drought and the onset of the Great Depresssion  which made the start of such a venture extremely difficult. By dint of hard work and perseverance the family managed to build a successful sheep property.  Jill was born there just as the family's fortunes improved. She with two older brothers then spent a few idyllic years in this isolated area.
 
In 1940 the elder boy was sent to boarding school in Sydney, 500 miles away. He tried to run away on several occasions so the parents sent the younger brother to the same school the following year.

Jill was now alone with her parents and, as World War 2 had led to a lack of station hands, she became her father's right hand “man”, spending most days riding with him and helping him with all the work required. She vividly describes the vast isolation but beautiful landscape. Her description of the dust storms are so vivid I felt as if I could taste the grit.
 
This early part of her life bears no resemblance to mine but after her father's death and the family moving to Sydney I could relate to many of her experiences. Her description of the school she attended sounded very similar to my experience, particularly when I became a boarder. There we wore hats, gloves and blazers and just reading her description brought back many memories.

Our attendance at University could not be compared as she was responsible for her mother who had become depressed and dependent on her children, particularly after the death of the older brother Robert in a car accident. My life at university was free of responsibility for anyone but myself.

On my first reading of this memoir I was captivated by the resilience and sense of duty displayed by Jill and had very little sympathy for her mother. However on this latest reading, I developed a respect for this woman as it seemed to me she was a victim of her gender. I can remember my own mother saying once how she envied me and my sisters-in-law as we all had our own careers.

How lucky am I that I was born into a family that valued education for all members regardless of gender. Also, although still victims of the gender pay gap, most women have the chance to have a career.


Marg McCrohan
​April 2021

In this story, Barry has written about an 'aide-memoir', defined variously as 'a blast from the past'; 'a list used to remind you of sometining'; 'something, usually written, that helps you remember something'; 'an aid to the memory, especially a book or note';  '"a memory-aid; a reminder or memorandum, especially a book or document serving this purpose"

Early in 1998 my eldest daughter and her husband planned a trip to Europe. In preparation for their trip, my daughter did some initial research on the family history. As part of this research she contacted the Wycheproof Historical Society and was put in touch with Allan Milburn, who was not only a member of the society, but also the local newsagent. The result of the research was very informative, however did not have all the information that she was seeking about the O’Connor’s. This would be investigated during the trip. Whilst in Ireland she would visit relatives and friends of her husband’s family. In Ireland she made contact with the genealogical centre in Clare, to learn that my Great Grandfather, James O'Connor, had been born in 1840 in Tiermaclane, County Clare, Ireland.  

I took the information ‘on board’ and the further investigation of the family history was put on the ‘to do’ list, until the Covid restrictions were imposed early in 2020. I did have a lot of information about the family tree which had been completed by the Benalla Family Research Group at the request of my wife, who presented it to me as a surprise in 2015. Whilst there were names on the family tree, there was obviously a background to each individual shown. The search began with the original family tree research as a basis, and then the resources of Ancestry and Trove.  During the journey, additional information came from two cousins who contacted me during my Ancestry research.

My initial contact was with Allan Milburn, whom my daughter had been in contact with some 23 years previously. To my surprise Allan remembered the details of the contact and the letter that he sent in response to a request from my daughter. Allan’s first comment to me was, “You realise Barry that your Great Grandfather was very highly thought of in the Wycheproof area, and was considered one of the founding fathers of the community”. This surprised me a little as the information that I had at the time, did allude to some community involvement, but not to the extent that I would later discover.
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In March 2020 the research project commenced in earnest and I was to discover that my Great Grandfather was indeed one of the founding fathers of Wycheproof. James was a leader in the building of the first Catholic Church in 1877 and was actively involved in any project involving the advancement of the community.  He built the first commercial building in Wycheproof, a hotel in 1874, he served as a Water Commissioner, a Racing Club official, President of the Agricultural Show Society, and a trustee of the Mechanic’s Institute. James was actively involved in the extension of the railway and on Friday, September 28, 1883, the long awaited "official opening" of the railway took place. In 1890, along with two other councillors, James started a project which saw the Wycheproof Hospital open in 1898. He was a Councillor on the St Arnaud Shire 1885-1894. In May 1893, he commenced work on splitting the huge shire. The Wycheproof Shire was formed from what was the North Riding of the St Arnaud Shire. 

​James was Shire President at the time of the split and the formation of the new Wycheproof Shire in April 1894. The new shire had an area of 620 square miles and a population of 1850. The shire was subdivided into three ridings.  James served an initial term on the new shire from 1894 to 1898.

Later in my research, I came upon a news article by accident, which revealed that during his time on Council in 1885, James was also involved in the ‘Dog Netting Fence’ project that covered 204 miles from Tyntynder to the South Australian border, to prevent wild dogs and other vermin from entering 1.2 million acres of farmlands to the south.

There is more to the story of James O’Connor which would fill another thirteen pages, however the memoir which prompted the new investigations came from my eldest daughter in March 1998.

Barry O’Connor,
24th April 2021.