​My sister Maureen, who was 7 years older than me, owned a horse.  I was allowed to look after Token but never to ride him.
 
One of her riding friends thought I should be taught to ride, something Maureen was resisting. She didn’t want a younger sister tagging along with them. When her friend went on holiday and insisted that I should ride her brother’s horse while they were away, the only way out for Maureen was that I needed to be discouraged.
 
I was told to go to the paddock and catch the horse, saddle it up and ride one mile down the road by myself to meet her. I was only 10 and had never saddled or ridden a horse before!
 
Enter Princess, the Circus pony. 
 
I knew that Princess was not an ordinary horse. She was a very pretty, white retired pony from the famous Wirth’s Circus. She knew lots of tricks, how to bow and how to curtsey by putting one leg out in front and curtsying really low, with her head down between her knees. The cue for this was to touch her shoulder.
 
If you put your hand behind the saddle she would lie down.
 
I didn’t know the other signals. The instructions were to mount carefully and sit very still in the saddle. I had never been on a horse before, and this was like climbing onto a bomb.
 
Princess was annoyed at being taken out of the paddock by a child she didn’t know, and she was not cooperating.  She danced and carried on and somewhere I must have hit the prance button. Hats off to those circus riders, they need a medal. Clinging on for dear life I made it to the end of the road and was greeted by, “What on earth have you done.”
 
Princess pranced with her neck arched, flinging her legs high with her dainty feet pounding the road all the way back. We didn’t know the stop signal.  Or if Maureen knew, she wasn’t saying and was looking very pleased.
 
I had no ambitions for a repeat performance.
                                                                                 
Bev Morton
July 2025

​Introduction  -  The transition from a beautiful Unit to the impersonal Room with ensuite in a Nursing Home was at first comforting. But reality struck in no time at all. He wanted to go to Illoura, but there were no vacancies. He had had numerous episodes of vertigo and hospital stays, when the decision was made, that he needed to be in care.

His daughters had important jobs and families to rear, and even though they were very generous with the time spent with their Dad, it simply was not enough for his own safety. After his last hospital stay, his doctor decided that it was unsafe for him to return to his home. So, when a vacancy came up at McDonald House at St John’s in Wangaratta they jumped at the chance. It was only temporary, as they wanted a month to assess him and decide where he would be best placed. He had to wait it out, until the assessment, before he would have the freedom to head off on his mobility scooter.

His brother visited him daily, his daughter a local to Wangaratta would visit three times a week, whilst his daughter from Melbourne, fortnightly. After the month's trial is completed, at least we can make the room homey, with personal possessions and photographs. But there wasn’t much sense in setting it up if he was to be transferred.

His unit, was put on the market and sold within days, so we needed to clear out his belongings. The antique furniture was hard to sell as the present generation want the Scandi or Coastal décor. But it was the personal items that had to be disposed of, that first made me feel uncomfortable. On Sunday, word had got around that he had moved, and friends came out of the woodwork wanting the dinner set, or the beautiful figurines collected over many years. Or “I’ve had my eye on that set of plates” or I’ve always loved those two giraffes” It was the same with pictures etc. etc. All said to my brother, or in his hearing. They were like crows at a rotting sheep carcass. He was tired and confused at what was happening. and probably thinking of his late wife.

The next morning, he rang me to say, “Someone has pinched my undies, in fact I can’t find the cupboard where my clothes should be.” I said,” Walk round the room and open every door.”.  His reply was “I’ve already done that” I said, “Ask one of the Staff” The reply was, “They don’t know anything they’ve never been to my home.” I live 60 ks. away, his daughter from Melbourne had gone home, and his other daughter had gone on a well-earned weekend break. He didn’t know if he was at home or at St John's. 

Brother John, to the rescue. Well, sort of. When he arrived, Willie was on the front lawn complaining he had been locked out of St John’s.

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.


Kathy Beattie
March 2025

My sister, Debbie, was a “Sister.”
 
The last time I spoke to her was on the phone a couple of weeks after my parents’ twenty fifth anniversary celebration. We didn’t talk about anything of note. She told me that her boyfriend, Steve, was running at an athletics event in Yarrawonga on the coming Saturday and they would spend Friday night at the farm in Stanhope.

I felt a kind of peace after the call as we were friends again after a falling out we’d had over leading up to Christmas.

As the new decade, the eighties, was starting we reconnected and Debbie and Dad came to my place for dinner. He asked if we could organise the anniversary celebration. Looking back I recognise that she did the organising and I did as I was told, including calling family friends in Melbourne to invite them from a list that she’d written for me.

The weekend went really well. Lots of photos were taken and we had a family meeting because my parents had an investment that had matured on their anniversary. Mum told us how proud she was of us and how blessed she felt having four healthy children who had grown to be healthy and responsible.

As with many brothers and sisters our lives sort of ran parallel.
 
We shared stories that Mum would read to us when we were little.
We welcomed our brother, Greg, into our lives when I was three and she was two. We were excited to move to the farm in Stanhope, chanting “Stand and Hope.”
Debbie and I ran the perimeter of the farm the first two afternoons, relishing the freedom of so much land.
We started a club around the abandoned pigsties on the farm which was quickly curtailed by our parents.
Stanhope Swimming Pool and Club provided us with most of our summer entertainment. We sat together in the car writing up stats for the under thirteens footy team that Greg played in and Dad coached.
A group of us held a seance when Harold Holt disappeared and, because he didn’t talk to us, we determined that he hadn’t drowned but was indeed taken by a Russian submarine. As nine and ten year olds we watched as our brother, Russell, developed nad came into the world.
At a school camp, when she was fifteen, Debbie had an epileptic fit.
I partnered with a local girl when Debbie made her debut.
When I got my driver’s licence Debbie used me as transport to get to parties boys had invited her to.
We shared a flat in Clayton as we both attended Monash Uni.

Debbie worked as an ECG technician at St Vincent's Hospital.
She went by herself to New Guinea.
She got a job in Bertram Wainers Clinic and braved protestors as she guided vulnerable women inside.
Paris, the golden retriever, who lived next door to her share house in Fitzroy introduced her to his owner, Steve and they shared surfing adventures. Debbie went alone to America in 79.
​
Dad woke Debbie and Steve as he went off to milk cows. As she got out of bed she had a fit and stopped breathing. Steve, Mum and Dad and later paramedics could not resuscitate her.


John Holschier
​March 2025

I stood at the ground-floor intercom, gazing up at the apartment building where my half-sister Lenore lived in Tweed Heads South, northern NSW. At 67, I was finally about to meet Lenore, who was 87. Though we had spoken over the past year and felt like kindred spirits, I still hoped the meeting would go smoothly. I wore a softly colored kaftan top I’d bought the day before, which I now call my ‘meeting Lenore top.’

“Hello. Is that you, Bev?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Just a moment, I’ll release the door. Come up to the twelfth floor—I’ll meet you at the lift.”

The lobby had a marble floor and a beautiful arrangement of native flowers. The lift was swift, and soon I was embracing Lenore for the first time. She was about my height, with a broad smile and enviable curls. Still vibrant, she welcomed me into her spacious apartment, where I met her partner Lawrie. He poured us a drink as Lenore explained their arrangement—Lawrie, her ‘friend with benefits,’ stayed every second week while maintaining his home in Burpengary. Twice widowed, Lenore had struggled after losing her second husband, Murray, after forty years together. Encouraged by friends, she joined a Probus trip two years earlier and met Lawrie, who promised to make her smile at least twice a day. They spoke openly about their late spouses, honoring them as an integral part of their lives.

The next day, with Lawrie back in Burpengary, Lenore and I sat comfortably, drinking tea and talking for hours. I shared how I hadn’t known I had a half-sister until I was fifteen. Lenore spoke of growing up believing her mother’s second husband, Albert Miller, was her biological father—until, at eighteen, she applied for a passport and discovered the truth. Her mother had always spoken positively about ‘Tony Lee,’ our shared father, and often remarked on Lenore’s resemblance to ‘The Lees,’ particularly in her fluency in French and love of art and music.

Over time, Lenore recognized subtle clues—moments when others seemed to know something she didn’t. She loved Albert deeply, and he had been a devoted father. A respected lawyer, he provided for Lenore and our now long-deceased half-brother, Ron, who became an economist in Canberra, advising five Treasurers and Prime Ministers.

Lenore spoke of Ron’s untimely death at 52 and her own hardships—losing her first husband, Michael, to a flood in her mid-thirties, leaving her a widow with three adopted children. She spoke of her second husband Murray with deep affection; his presence was felt in every room of her apartment. Her adopted daughter, Regina, lived in Sydney, and they remained close.

​I adore Lenore. Now nearly 91, she grieves Lawrie’s passing last year but still drives to appointments, reads avidly, and, with help from a cleaner, manages in her apartment. Regina and her grandchildren check in regularly, as do her two devoted half-brothers from Albert’s side.

On Sunday, Lenore called, excited. She had rediscovered family photos I had sent and had been reminiscing with her half-brother about newspaper articles I’d found on Trove, featuring their mother’s beautiful singing voice. She asked if I could send them again. I must get onto that.

I hope to visit Lenore again, stand at the intercom, look up toward the twelfth floor, and hear her say --

“Is that you, Bev?”

​Bev Lee
Originally written in October 2018, edited to 500 words in March 2025

Conversation with my partner:

“Am I right in saying that my sister isn’t as awful as I think she is?”

“Yes.”

My partner is a man of few words.

This was going to be the gist of my story. The pain and the anger of not having spoken to my sister since my mother died in 2008.

She behaved abominably;  I sent her an abominable letter. 

Coward that I am, I have opted to write about my grandmother and her sister instead. They too had a rocky relationship.

My grandmother was a force of nature. Confident to the point of arrogance, she was fearless and disinterested in social mores, but nonetheless had a strong sense of right and wrong.

She married, divorced and at 34 had an illegitimate child. To make it more interesting, the father was a well-known critic/poet, and a member of a well-known literary group, all homosexuals.

In contrast to her unconventional sibling, Ruth, her younger sister, married, and stayed happily married, the loving mother of two sons, and later, the loving and loved Oma of her grandchildren.

Grandmother’s family was not happy with the rise of Hitler, but, unlike my grandmother,  was also convinced that he would not last.

Grandmother thought otherwise. She visited her Jewish neighbours and urged them to migrate.

That done, she packed her bags and moved to Rome, where she lived for almost the rest of her life. Aged 91 she migrated to Australia. Unable to persuade her daughter to move back to Italy, she had no choice.

Unlike her final move to Australia, her move to Rome was a happy one. A German Italophile, she adored Italy and the Italians. She would have probably moved to Rome even without Hitler.

Family history, at least my mother’s version of it,  has it that grandmother’s brother- in- law, her sister’s husband,  was elected mayor of his town once Germany lost the war. He had been chosen because of his, presumably muted,  criticism of Hitler. When the Soviets came, he was executed as a representative of Nazism.

In Rome, the only member of my grandmother’s family  who visited regularly was her sister-in-law, Tante Elisabeth. She was the widow of my grandmother’s brother. I adored her.

Ruth stayed resolutely in Germany, grandmother in Italy. As far as I know, they did not communicate.

When grandmother talked about her childhood, her brother was rarely, if ever mentioned. Ruth slightly more, but never in a positive light. The unforgivable sin -  Ruth stealing her Easter eggs, and her parents failing to replace them.

A few years back Ruth’s great grand-daughter moved to Melbourne, having fallen in love with an Australian man. Her mother, Ruth’s grand - daughter came to visit. We met up and I asked her what Ruth was like: “ A very gentle, loving woman”

Very gentle and loving is not a description I would use for my grandmother. Principled and strong yes, gentle and loving, never.

Grandmother died a few months after Ruth. Grandmother was 99, Ruth 97. I am convinced that grandmother was determined to outlive her sister as yet another act of one upmanship.

 
Delfina
March 2025

​​Before starting school in Mansfield, the words Mum, Dad, Brother and Grandma were familiar. I was also aware we had relatives, lots of them. Some were called Aunty or Uncle, others were addressed by their first names. Everyone else was Mr or Mrs Family Name.

On the first day of school, two new words were introduced into my vocabulary; ʻcousinʼ and ʻsisterʼ. I stared at the girl who was introduced as ʻyour cousinʼ. She looked familiar, but I couldnʼt see how she was much different to the other children sitting in rows behind little tables. Later I learned that ʻcousinsʼ were a subset of ʻrelativesʼ.

The ʻsisterʼ who steered me into the classroom was an adult dressed in a long black costume. Wooden beads hung on a string from her waist and they clicked in tune with the rustle of her long skirt as she moved. As I craned my neck up towards her face, I could see a huge white bib fastened around her neck, even bigger than the napkin Dad tucked into his shirt at tea time.

There were a number of sisters who keep a watchful eye on us and showed no mercy for transgressions such not eating all our dinner even though the custard was lumpy and the plums sour. The after school sister was especially vigilant about little fingers who tried to skim off the slimy film that settled on top of the hot milo.

​​Then and now. Convent to Ski Lodge.

​Mid way through primary school, after the Eildon Weir swamped half the farm, I went to school in Euroa. St Johnʼs was run by the same brand (order) of nuns, the Sisters of (no) Mercy. Sister Evarista was admired by many of the parents but a source of terror to anyone who didnʼt know their times tables. I did my homework and kept a low profile in Grades 3 and 4.

For secondary school in Melbourne, I joined the daughters of farmers, publicans and bookies. We formed a tight knit sisterhood, learning the solidarity and loyalty of female companionship as well as cultivating methods of resistance to authority. Although our keepers were Brigidine Sisters, we addressed them as ʻMotherʼ, an indication of the balance of power between the adults and their unruly adolescent students.

I am fortunate in having two sisters I love dearly. Yes, we have had a few scraps along the way, but generally we get on well despite our differing views.  I am the oldest of three and coincidentally, the first of three babies to survive. As such I was spoilt rotten by aunts, uncles, and of course my wonderful parents.

I grew up in an era of girls playing with girl toys and boys with boy toys, so I had a large collection of dolls. When I was 9 years old, Mum came home and showed me her latest doll. It moved and cried and was totally fascinating to me.

It seems after so long, I had a sister. I immediately began to “help” Mum to care for this new arrival, so I had the privilege of naming her. I had been reading the Susan Day stories so of course, I decided Susan was the best name.

My parents went overboard to ensure I knew I was still their little angel (or so they thought). Hence there was never any jealousy.

Rather, they had an issue with trying to get me to let Mum be the Mum. I recall one morning I heard Susan crying upstairs in her cot. Mum was hanging out the washing so I went upstairs, lifted her into the carrycot and slid her down the stairs!!!! Luckily no injuries occurred, but I was told quite firmly not to try that again.

Another year went by and suddenly Mum appeared with another doll. This one screamed louder than the last but was just as much fun. By this time, I was 10 and quite capable of doing more to help. I’m not sure who came up with the idea, but we ended up agreeing to Lynne for her name.

We grew up together and became a very close family. I became the son my father always wanted, at least, that was the family joke. I loved being out in the garage helping Dad. I even got to do some carpentry with him. My sisters were inside learning to cook and do dressmaking with Mum.