In my previous writings I have glossed over my work with the Victorian Producers Co-Op (Stock and Station Agents, except perhaps my time at Wodonga.  I shouldn’t have done that, as this period truly covered approximately one-third of my working life.  It was where I had received my grounding in book-keeping, or accounting. 

To keep this memoir within limits, I will list the duties, with some reflective comments along the way.

Benalla 1950 – 1955
Regular book-keeping, banking and office duties.
Merchandise sales, including stock medicines, wool-packs and fencing materials.
Booking clerk for auctions at fortnightly sheep and cattle market, quarterly special sales of sheep, covering 6000 to 10000 per head, and occasional clearing sales when farmers had disposed of their property.
Delivery boy of livestock to holding pens, transports and railway trucking yards.  After dinner phoning advice to clients, giving their stock prices and when appropriate, their wool prices.  Friendly interaction with telephonists.
Preparation of invoices and account sales for all transactions.

St Arnaud 1955 – 1958
This branch included a grocery store – I spent an extraordinary amount of time typing grocery accounts.  There were a minimal number of cash transactions in those days, primarily ‘charge’ to accounts.  I didn’t attend livestock sales, but I was responsible for the accounting.  I did attend and act as booking clerk for the frequent clearing sales.
There was no ‘after hours’ involvement.

Wodonga 1958 – 61
Wodonga was an eye-opener.
I worked at markets Monday (pig and calf); Tuesday (cattle); and Wednesday (sheep), every week, as booking and delivery clerk.  I performed the bookwork for the sales every evening from Monday through Thursday until 11.30 pm.  This resulted in ‘nervous debility’, precipitating a transfer to head-office. 

Head-Office Melbourne, 1961 – 1963
Much more relaxed working conditions.  I lived with my brother John and his family in a loving family environment.
Branch Auditor.  There were 14 country branches, and I attended them each three times per year, conducting a ‘surprise’ audit.  There were two of us in the audit department, with me being the main branch auditor, and my senior partner being the Head Office auditor.  I had little involvement with head-office affairs.  Branch personnel generally did not appreciate being checked upon.

Benalla 1963-1966
The Benalla office was experiencing some internal strife and the branch manager requested that I be returned as office administrator.  And so, I was transferred back to my very first job. 

​Is that advancement?  As seems logical to me, I believed that I was not reaching my full potential.  And I was on the look-out for other opportunities.

As a mature aged student in my late 30’s, I studied and qualified as a Certified Practicing Accountant (CPA).  I also studied further and became a Fellow in the Institute of Chartered Accountants (FCA).  I then worked in, then purchased a 50% share in a Chartered Accountancy practice, specialising in taxation.  I also became administrator of a Co-operative Housing Society group which financed 525 homes in Benalla.
​
And so, I believe that I eventually achieved my full potential.
 
Ray O’Shannessy
November 2025

​​It was 'Time for a Change' ... (you only live once!)

In my case it was a farm change.  I knew I was always destined to live on a farm and be a farmer.   I was born in a country town but at the age of 3 we moved to a suburb in Melbourne and for 36 years I was a city person. I even spent two years living in London.

It was a natural progression that I would eventually own a farm.  It wasn’t until I was in my late thirties that my husband and I travelled to Wangaratta and looked at several properties.  We were ready for a lifestyle change.   One property we were shown had a long Poplar lined drive with a Victorian homestead, roses in the garden and surrounded by lush green paddocks.  My dream had come true.

​Our daughter was born not long after we moved in and even though she loved the farm life and the animals she moved to Melbourne to commence studies at university and settled there.  After 26 years of farming, we moved into Benalla for an easier life and retirement.

On reflection the choice we made to move to the country was the right one and I can honestly say they were the most satisfying years of my life.
​

Robyn Desmier
​May 2025

​​Last Tuesday I came home to find Michael had sent me an unusual email.

Fancy Peter Dutton coming to Benalla- not just Benalla but to Rebbechi Court! I looked outside to make sure there were no crowds assembling. Maybe I’d missed it. Tuesday morning coffee was a long-standing arrangement but I would have foregone it to see Peter Dutton’s reaction to next-door’s orange galahs hanging in the tree.

I checked with Michael to see if he knew the time of the visit. He didn’t but was sure it would be before midday. This was just after midday, so it looked like I was away when it happened. Bother!

And then, an hour or two later, I discovered I had earned the title of April Fool.

Immediately I thought of twenty-five years ago, when I had rung five-year-old grandson Matthew to tell him that he needed to give a message to the school principal that morning. I don’t remember the exact message – it was something about an elephant let loose in Yarrawonga – but I do remember Matthew’s quavering voice asking me to repeat the message so that he could get it right.

Michael’s son, Joe, was about three when I rang to tell him there was a horse in the toilet. But the reaction I most remember was a year or two later when I rang Joe’s brother Zac, about six at the time, to tell him Melbourne Storm had relocated to Alice Springs. He burst into tears!

When I pondered these times, I felt I had been a very unfeeling Grandma. Those young boys probably didn’t even know what April Fool’s Day was all about.

However, before the day was over I received another email from twenty seven- year-old Zac, now a policeman. After thanking me for my birthday greetings, he said he’d intentionally emailed me that day because he always remembered the Grandma who master-minded pranks on him on multiple occasions in the past and how he loved telling these stories.

I felt forgiven.

He finished the email by letting me know that Anthony Albanese was stopping by Tallangatta bakery that day, for a photo opportunity with a vanilla slice!

April Fooling must have been something of a family tradition as Michael reminded me of the time he put green colouring in a bottle of milk. His father was not impressed.

When I was at school the rules about April Fool’s Day were pretty strict. If you tried to fool someone even one minute after midday, you were the April Fool. On the other hand, after midday, people could stick notices on someone’s back saying ‘Kick me’ and you could feel free to obey the request.

Maybe next year, I’ll be on the lookout for one of the gang maintaining family traditions, thereby turning me into an April Fool. I certainly won’t be ringing any children and leaving them in tears!


Carmyl Winkler   
April 2025

​Yes, there was a phone in Dad’s study, but I don’t remember ever making a personal call on it.
 
I was in Form 6 when Don went off to National Service in the Navy. I had wangled permission to go with him to see a film before he left but hadn’t really anticipated the opportunity of letter writing. Letters of six or eight pages regularly arrived and were duly answered.
 
The next year I was off to university, so Don’s letters continued, as did letters from my mother. Every Sunday night she wrote to any family member who was away and also to her sister, using carbon paper. The pages would then be sorted so that everyone had a top copy as well as an assortment of later copies.
 
In Indonesia, whenever we had nothing else to do, we’d write letters to a large assortment of family and friends. We had a modest post office in the Mess building next door. Mail seemed to arrive in bundles – none for a while and then a number together. Three weeks was about average time.
 
Sometimes a parcel arrived, mostly containing food such as packet soup. The prize-winning parcel was when my mother wrapped up a baby bath and posted it!
 
Don’s mother was very sick, and we desperately wanted her to know of the arrival of our baby before she died. Don wrote a letter that day and took it into the post office, explaining the urgency. The post-office man put it in his pocket to post in town. That letter never arrived but the next day, we each wrote a letter and they did arrive a few days before Mum’s life ended. The news of her death was received some weeks later from a relative who assumed we already knew. At least it wasn’t unexpected.
 
In contrast, six months later, my twenty-five-year-old sister and her husband died in a car accident. Again, the first letter we received thought we knew about it. Of course, the funeral was well over before we heard the news.
 
There was no fresh milk available in Aceh and a small tin of Danish powdered milk cost a fair proportion of Don’s salary, so the family sent several 3lb. tins over to us when Bronwyn was a baby. They took three months or more to arrive. When we visited Aceh thirty years later, our best friend told us that after we left, some milk arrived, and she used it for her own baby. She hoped we didn’t mind!
 
Back to country living in Australia. No home telephone. Walk around two blocks to the phone box if you wanted to contact your children in Melbourne.
 
Telegrams for important news. One said we had a new nephew named Solomon. We later found out the telegraph lady misheard – he was actually Simon.
 
My mother died unexpectedly. Three successive calls to our neighbour, who graciously called us in for each one.
 
We moved house. We had a phone! Twenty-eight years after we were first married!
 
Another ten years and we bought a computer and learned about emails.
 
Now I even own a rarely-used mobile phone.
 
But where will the great-grandchildren find the old letters to tell them about the past?

 
Carmyl Winkler
​October 2024

Sandy Beach has had a mention in a previous memoir as I remember. The complete commercial picture was a small grocery with post office, a baker’s shop and a lolly shop. It certainly didn’t include a pharmacy – or a doctor for that matter.

So when I cut my leg climbing about on the galvanized fence and the cut became infected, my mother had to send for help further afield. Mr. Swain lived over the road and drove his sleek green bus to Launceston and back, about fifty km. each way, every week day. Mother explained the situation and asked him tobuy a particular ointment to treat the cut. By the time Mr. Swain had dropped his passengers and arrived at the pharmacy, he’d forgotten the name of the ointment. However, he passed on what had happened and the chemist sold him something he thought would be appropriate.

It turned out that not only did the ointment fail to heal the leg but it started eating into the flesh. Needless to say, that particular treatment came to an abrupt end and an order was put in for the original ointment. Mr. Swain made sure he got it right this time and brought it over as soon as he finished his run. It did indeed heal the leg, but I can still dimly see the scar on my calf eighty years later.

From Sandy Beach, we moved to Ballarat and I was off to Pleasant Street State School. In those days, if students didn’t pass their exams, they were left down to repeat the year. Barbara was fourteen in Grade 6 and much bigger than we eleven-year-olds. She was giving me a piggy-back one playtime and she set me down on a small post supporting the netball goal post. This had a large bolt poking out three or four inches. As I jumped down, this bolt tore a large piece of flesh in my thigh and left it hanging on three sides. Poor Barbara was horrified but, of course, it wasn’t her fault.

The thigh had gone completely numb – possibly some of the nerves were severed – so I couldn’t feel any pain but, as I recall, the office lady fainted at the sight.

Off to Ballarat Hospital to get a multitude of stitches and a piece of sticking plaster about five inches wide to cover the wound. I was off school for six weeks and recommended to stay off my leg.

I had regular check-ups at the hospital and these entailed dragging off the giant sticking plaster each time. It was agony. However, one of the nurses had a wonderful idea. She cut the plaster down the centre,  turned back the edges and threaded a lace through cuts in the fold. From then on, it was just a matter of loosening the lace each time a check-up was needed. I loved that nurse!

One time Mother and I went to the hospital in a taxi as the car was unavailable. It cost so much we had to return in the tram and I had to walk the longish block from the tram stop to our place, much to Mother’s concern.

However the wound healed and the scar remained.

Much more interesting than a tattoo!

​
Carmyl Winkler
April 2024

​Scars. What purpose do they play in our lives?
 
After the initial wound, a scar is left to remind us of one significant episode in our history. Does it have a purpose? Can a wound be fully healed or what lies beneath the scar?
 
I do enjoy gardening but upon moving into my home in Benalla, after much futile activity, I realised that my garden had been designed for permanency and I was constrained to designing an indoor garden as an alternative.
 
That decision is probably a good one as I have a number of scars from injudicious over-enthusiasm in my garden.
 
My most significant scar is a reminder of an injury received when I was designing and building an ornate vegetable garden. A casually regarded scratch was inadequately first-aided, resulting in an infection, leading to cellulites.
 
Warm, red and very painful were my symptoms and daily anti-bacterial injections by a visiting nurse for a week, was the treatment. Now the wound is healed, I still occasionally experience twinges in that region of my leg. Is this a salutary reminder of my folly and a welcome entreaty to care for all open wound injuries with due diligence?
 
It is though, the emotional wounds that can be more difficult to treat and leave the more permanent scar.

In my thirties I was appointed to the senior position in community care. It was a dream job which offered challenges and opportunities opening up national connections. After a couple of years the organisation went into internal conflict. I struggled to respond appropriately or effectively.  My leadership skills were found wanting and I was unable to find a pathway forward. I was asked to tender my resignation.

I was devastated. I had a young family and no idea where I would go or how I might be able to  sustain us. 

Yet this wound opened up the possibility for discovering my passion. I began teaching adults at night and discovered that I had skills to teach and educate, challenge and inspire. It was this career that sustained me for the remainder of my working life.

In retrospect, could I have been more discerning when I read in my final school report the observation by my headmaster that I had ‘some’ leadership skills? Perhaps I could have focused earlier in my life on skills and insights that would have avoided my fall. Or perhaps it is in our ‘falling’ where greater wisdom can be found.

Recently I felt a ‘nudge’ to work as a volunteer in palliative care. It feels like an exceptional privilege to sit beside those nearing the end of their life and seeking ways to improve the quality of these later stages of their life.
 
My son, in his wisdom identified, that I probably had to get to this age (75) to work in this area.

I have also recognised an urge to work with others to establish a separate and stand-alone hospice in Benalla?   Have I learnt sufficient from my wounds and fallings to walk alongside others of a similar mind or vision?  Only time will tell.


Graham Jensen
April, 2024

Barry O'Connor
September 2023

“My Family and Other Animals” is the title of a book by Gerard Durrell, which was given to me one Christmas. The title amuses me, and I loved the story so much I saved my pocket money to buy the sequel.

But let’s focus on the four-legged members of my family …

When I was about six, we were visited by a happy Labrador who seemed as pleased to see us as we kids were to meet her. “Can we keep her?” was the question we urgently needed answering. Dad looked at her collar and explained she already had an owner. Somewhat downheartedly we asked what her name was. Dad read off the dog tag – “City of Camberwell” he said with a straight face – and I believed him!
​
The next year on Christmas morning I woke to find a puppy at the end of my bed – the best present ever. I was only slightly put out to find I had to share him with my siblings. Snoopy, as he was named (after a popular cartoon character of the time), was a beagle x fox terrier. He was quite a character, growing up to be an escape artist who could scale a 6-foot fence with ease. Once, he was caught by the local dog-catcher but then escaped from the pound, much to the council’s embarrassment! We gradually found out some of the places he travelled to – he acquired two best friends: a young golden Labrador, Honey, and a Bassett Hound, Sally. Occasionally they would also visit us; there’d be a rattle at the gate and Mum would let the visitor into the backyard where the dogs would have fun until another rattle at the gate revealed it was time to go home.

Some of our holidays were spent at “farm stays”, a novelty for a suburban family. We went to a Gippsland farm during lambing season and delighted in bottle feeding lambs. Somehow, we managed to convince our parents to let us take two home who we named Sally and David. Such a fun novelty, but of course over the next few weeks Mum ended up doing most of the work, cleaning up after them and waking for the early morning feeds, while us kids took them for walks to the amusement &/or amazement of the neighbours. When Sally and David were a little bigger we surrendered them to a friend’s farm where they created havoc by not being intimidated by sheep dogs.

Around this time Mum took up spinning, which led to her deciding to buy a coloured sheep and grow fleeces to spin. There was a succession of sheep but one in particular I remember was a black ram named Tuddawali. Tuddy’s favourite trick was to come galloping down the path, usually when I was preoccupied carrying the washing out, lower his head and bowl me over! The only way I could escape was to grab onto his horns, hang on tightly despite his wrestling to get free, and yell loudly for Mum. I was so glad when Tuddy eventually left!

Mum went back to school to train as a wool classer, then she and Dad bought a sheep farm on King Island and bred Border Collies. When I married, we visited at Christmas, and after the second visit we moved to King Island ourselves. We had orphan lambs, an angora goat, a couple of guinea pigs and several dogs in the five years we were there before we reluctantly moved back to Melbourne’s suburbia.


Phiona Rhodes
​July 2023

​I can’t imagine what I included in my job application. I had no qualifications other than having had four youth in my house for a number of years. I was fifty years old.

I saw the job advertised in the local paper – two jobs actually. One was for a youth worker and the other for someone to assist young people to find jobs.
​
I went for an interview thinking it was for the second position but it seemed that the youth worker was the job in question. Returning home, I had a rethink and phoned to say I no longer wanted to apply. ‘That’s a pity. The job is yours. What about a three month trial?’ was the reply.

Where would I begin? Driving licences were important in a town where there was no public transport. Six evening classes revising the L plate questions with some helpful speakers. The only thing was that more than half of the group who turned up were middle-aged women! A driving instructor was organised to come to Tallangatta for initial lessons before braving the metropolis of Wodonga. They all passed.

Adult-youth evenings discussing teenage parties, peer relationships, smoking and other topics, were a success. Young women’s groups with speakers on exercise, make-up, contraception and self-defence followed.

Two local young people died unexpectedly, one due to a rifle accident and the other a bright 16 year-old who contracted some sort of flu. A grief counsellor came out to talk with the young people.

​In amongst these programs we had the youth centre open - pool table, lounge chairs, cans of Coke for sale, lots of noise, the occasional swearing, straight after school and all through the holidays.

​Then there were young people wanting to find work, others wanting to go to university who sometimes only lasted a semester, with the pressure of looking after themselves, often involving shopping, laundry, cooking, as well as the study. It’s not easy for young people from the country.

My challenges were many. The Youth Centre bought a mini-bus to take young people on outings and group meetings. Yes, I was the driver.

We organised holiday activities of canoeing and other outdoor activities, including abseiling from the Wangaratta water tower. Canoeing was a family pastime- no worries, but the thought of abseiling was a nightmare. Sure, I didn’t need to do it. But I somehow managed.

​One of my youth left to go on his own path and ended up in Pentridge. A visit there was a new experience

After six years, I decided that I’d like to help put the fence at the top of the cliff rather than the ambulance at the bottom and went off to do a Tafe Parenting course, which resulted in working with over 300 parents in various groups over the next few years, including one I’d had preparation for – in the Beechworth Gaol!

​Carmyl Winkler
July 2023

​Well we all have a face
That we hide away forever
And we take them out
And show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on.

 ...............................   Billy Joel

In the summer of 1977, I was kissed by a boy. My first kiss. It was clumsy, unpleasant and unimportant. Except that it marked a turning point in my early adolescence. The start of a year would see me try many new things.

The year would start with my first experience of buying new clothes for myself. For some time I had been working at my father's office during the school holidays. I cannot describe the euphoria of the moment I purchased a pair of denim jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. New clothes from a shop! The feeling of these store-bought clothes on my youthful body was indescribable. Does a butterfly feel like this when it turns and sees the chrysalis, empty and redundant on the plant?

In the summer we holidayed in Taupo, where family friends had a small unit under their home. The family also had a teenage daughter slightly older than me. She introduced me to boys. To spontaneous gatherings at the lake, and whispered teenage daydreams.

While I was trying on a new me, my parents were becoming more emotionally absent from my life. Their own unhappiness and adult problems converged to allow me unfettered access to a new, more adult world. I discovered the fun of having friends for the first time. No longer expected to entertain friends at home, we would meet up at Youth Group, and at the shiny new shopping mall. Teenagers didn’t need parents to initiate or supervise their social calendar.

I discovered a passion for drama and public speaking. That year I won the best actress and best public speaker at school.

By the end of the academic year, I scooped every award except the sports accolades. I was giddy with pride after the awards night when I was called up to the stage over and over again. My friends had risen to their feet in a standing ovation, laughing along with me.

In the years that followed, the new, confident teenager took up drama, debating and student leadership. I explored my passions, by taking art courses. For a brief time, I dabbled in modelling and politics.

​These moments in time, often brief, and always exciting are simple expressions of the many facets that make me, an adult. Sometimes vulnerable, sometimes strong. Sometimes certain, sometimes lost. Examined in private, seen by all. The faces of the stranger.


Michelle Aitken
August 2022

.I have no evolving stories in my life right now, so members choice it is...
​
Outback Adventure

I came from the United Kingdom to a farming area in the South of Western Australia which is where I did my schooling. In my final two years of high school, I had the chance to see the North West with my school buddy’s family. They were experienced bushies, 100% Aussie. They carried an old plastic rubbish bin which I learnt later was to be our washing machine. Put clothes and soapy water in the bin, secure the lid, then secure the bin in the trailer or van. After long miles over dusty dirt road the washing is agitated like it would be in a commercial washing machine. At your overnight camp spot, you rinse and hang the washing. It’s so hot there it dries overnight. Simple.

We headed off with 4WD and caravan towards the Wittenoom Gorge.  WOW, that’s some canyon. Rugged but beautiful. We travelled around Fortescue River, Broome, Karratha and numerous other mining towns. All I can say about that area is, red dust, red dirt and hot. The rugged ground could be said to have an element of beauty and I suppose if my aunt, the artist, were to visit she would have been painting it like crazy. However, I was not overly impressed. I did like the hands of bananas growing around Broome and the fabulous beaches.

Another thing unique to the North is the Road Train. I saw plenty of trucks with two and occasionally three trailers, but some of those N.T. trucks are 55 meters long !!!!!!! It’s a bit concerning when you are on the road and a hand pops out of the driver’s window and waves you around, the roads are very straight but narrow. Of course, with a 55mtr road train, that just isn’t going to happen.

​I was amused when we headed up to the Northern Territory and a remote community called Humpty Do. It was virtually a pub and that’s it.

Around Kakadu, where the scenery improved no end, we saw Jim Jim Falls, Barramundi Gorge, Jarranbarnmi and Mamukala Wetlands.

​At one point we camped under a shady tree alongside a dry creek bed. I was told at this time of year its normal for creeks to dry up. There were three families camping right in the creek bed out of the wind. My guides called out to them and advised them to move up out of the creek. They just laughed and waved. I didn’t understand why we stayed at the top copping the dust storms and wind. I got my answer just before dawn broke.  I was awoken by a loud rumbling noise; I assumed it was a thunder storm and wished we were down in that protected area. Then the noise got louder, I could hear crashing, banging and screams. Within minutes the dry creek bed was flooded and the caravans washed away, smashed against the rock walls. Fortunately, the tourists from the creek bed campsites survived with only minor injuries. We were able to pull them up to safety, but they had learnt a hard lesson as they had lost everything except the clothes they stood up in. Now they, and I, understood.  Apparently, it’s a phenomenon experienced in that location, after tropical storms and rain further up north a wall of water comes down filling creeks instantly. A lucky escape indeed.

Heather Hartland
​August 2022

At various times throughout life, we are presented with circumstances offering options, which require careful consideration. Some are not so important as perhaps, “What do I wear today?”  However, others need some careful consideration, as the wrong choice may not be beneficial to yourself, or your family. Yet others, present as the lessor of two evils, which one will have the least adverse impact?
 
Such an option was presented to me just a few years ago. At this time my wife and I had both retired from our corporate positions in Sydney and moved back to Victoria to be closer to family. Our destination of choice was a farming property located in the very fertile Samaria Valley, just 25 kms south of Benalla.
 
We had updated the rainwater storage and reticulation system and had plans drawn up for an extension to the house. Whilst completing some basic plumbing maintenance it was noticed that the pressure pump was coming on at times, when there were no taps on in the house. This can sometimes be attributed to the hot water feed tank located in the ceiling, as it refills after the hot water has been used. However, the stop/start process continued, so it was possible that there was a leak somewhere in the system, however there were no obvious signs. The house being brick veneer had a number of steel vents located in the lower brick foundations to supply ventilation to the sub-floor area. A couple of these were carefully removed and it was discovered that there was in fact a small leak under the house.
 
It became apparent that when the main cold water distribution line was originally installed, it was in galvanised steel and had simply been laid along the ground, and not saddle clipped up under the floor bearers as normal. This resulted in the pipe being in contact with the ground, and over time it had rusted from the outside in, creating a small, but growing, leak. The options were to try and work within the very limited sub-floor space and attempt to remove the pipe, accessing it through the holes where the sub-floor vents were, or ripping up the floor to access the pipe. Option one was chosen, as my wife was not at all attracted to the idea of having the floorboards in the house lifted.
 
Now the sub-floor option would require some very strict planning, to ensure that the house was not without a water supply for more than a day. Prior to the leaking pipe being removed, there was a trip to Benalla to get high pressure PVC fittings and lengths of pipe to the dimensions of the pipe to be removed. The vents were removed and in one location a couple of extra bricks were also removed to allow access to a pipe junction which had to be unscrewed. Fortunately, the take-off points were located near where the vents had been positioned. The removal of the vents allowed my arm, up to my upper arm, to enter the subfloor cavity and unscrew the copper take-off pipes and slide the length of leaking galvanised pipe out from under the house.  Once removed, the steel pipe was laid out on the ground and the PVC pipe assembled to the same dimensions, with the take-offs matching the original positions.  
 
Next came the subsequent set of options. Whilst assembling the replacement PVC pipe, I looked over towards the house to see the tail of a black snake disappearing through the vent hole into the sub-floor area.
 
Whilst contemplating what the next move would be, I completed the assembly of the reticulation pipes ready for reinstallation. Now my thought process was not assisted by the request from my wife, on what the time limit would be before water was restored.
 
My options were, to take my chances with the snake during the underfloor installation, or incur the wrath of an unhappy wife, who was inside the house, without water.  Again, option one was chosen.  I inserted the main sections of the distribution lines, then reached through the vents to reattach the take-off’s, making as much noise as I could, hoping that the snake would retreat to the other side of the house sub-floor area.  
 
Well, it seemed to work.  The take-offs were reattached without incident, while the vents were replaced after allowing a couple of days for the snake to reconsider its ‘options’.
​
 
Barry O’Connor
August 2022

Our family’s move to the country had been delayed and I was stuck between primary and secondary school. Seeing that I had missed the first term, I was sent to the small one teacher country school with ten of the local farmer’s children.

The teacher turns out to be a larrikin who loves to play outside with us and is averse to teaching lessons of any kind. He has nicknames for the boys, Nitwit, Bombhead, Dimwhit, etc. and loves to tease them. He has a small stick that he has been whittling to a point. He swishes it through the air. “This would shave bacon!”

One morning he says, “Okay, all you mugs, outside and I’ll challenge you all to a game of alleys.” He supervises the preparation of the marbles pad and the drawing of the poison ring in the sand. School requisites are now your lunch and a bag of marbles as we play most of the morning.

One wet Monday morning at the weekly flag raising ceremony, we stand at attention around the flag pole in the rain and salute the flag and recite. “I love God and my country. I honour the King. I salute the flag”, etc. It’s considered too wet today for lessons, which means too wet to play outside, so we clear the desks from the school room and play cricket indoors. King George the fourth, whose picture is still on the wall, cops a blow to the head as it is struck by a ball hit by the teacher.

“Sir”, as we respectfully call him, spends one whole day sitting in the top branches of a tall gum tree, wearing an army camouflage coat and reading a book.  We play outside as usual. We know where he is, but don’t let on. Every hour we wander about, avoiding his tree, calling with mournful cries, “Where are you sir?” When it’s time to go home he lets us stew for a bit longer before he climbs out of his tree.

As a city kid coming from a girl’s school, I have never played football and cricket. I inwardly cringe every time we play football as I am the oldest in the school but will be the last one chosen for a team. I am trying hard to fit in.
 
For me, things take a turn for the better when the news on the grapevine is the inspector will arrive unannounced next week!   Karma has caught up with us. A hurried first lesson on decimal fractions for the three older classes turns to disaster. We are told to go to lunch and after the break we will all be caned for being dumb!
​
Lunch is a silent affair with none of the usual banter. Then Laurie asks, “Bev’ley, have you ever had the cuts?” “No.”  They teach me how to relax my left hand while supporting the hand and wrist with my right hand. I get explanations of the motion and force of the stick at different heights and the height that my hand should be held so that I won’t get the full force. The hand should not move. Do the wrong thing and you will get a second one.

We file silently into the classroom and lineup with a supported outstretched hand. When the teacher comes to the older girl at the end of the line he hesitates. Then he sees that I’m smiling and I cop a beauty! My stinging hand is a badge of honour. I have been treated as one of them.  

One warm afternoon in a rapidly failing English lesson teacher says, “Okay you mugs! Get out your bikes and meet me down the beach for a game of cricket.” He leads the charge on his motor bike.

Playing on sand today, the rules are full toss of the ball, hit and run. I am always bowled out for a duck and as usual I have been chosen last.  Laurie Dixon says incredulously, “Bev’ley’s their leading bat!” This is different, I’m standing in deep sand and they are throwing a cricket ball at my head. I bash it away in self-defense, throw down the bat and run before they can throw another one at me. I clock up a good score and the underdogs win.

Arriving back at school there are draught horses confined behind an electric fence to eat down the excess spring grass. “Beverley, have you ever had an electric shock?” “No, I haven’t” There are delighted shrieks of “Come on then” and “Laurie, grab the wire.” They line up holding hands and I am put on the end to receive the full charge. I am now accepted!

The result of all this non schooling was boarding school in Melbourne, but that year is what I call ‘my gap year’.  I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.


​Bev Morton
August 2022

Then I came to Benalla and found the wonderful U3A program. I haven’t missed a Thursday singing group since I joined.

Some members of that group and others from the Uniting Church made a CD of songs called ‘Peace Be With You’ for palliative care patients or people feeling lonely or depressed. We gave them away. I was part of that project and so glad to be so.

​Singing for me is not an accomplishment but a joy. I didn’t realise how important it has been to me until I wrote this down.


Carmyl Winkler
August 2022