Bad Form 
 
Twelve years, and I still managed to withstand the onslaught, though it was close at times. Twelve years a non-Catholic in Christian Brothers school system. With the following exception, the Christian Brothers were regular guys. There were always the fervent younger ones who saw their goal to convert us heathens rather than teach us anything, however amongst the elder brothers there were some real characters.
 
A Chemistry and Physics teacher can't remember the brother’s name, but we called him Erg for he was definitely a unit of energy. Rotund, jolly and good natured, he kept pigs in the college ground and “loved them pigs”. At one stage the powers to be decided Erg should be sent to a different school to teach. They took him to the railway station, and he just caught a taxi back. There was no way they were going to separate Erg from his pigs.
 
As for me, school wasn't all that happy a place. I had suffered serious dyslexia, had poor eye/brain functionality so sport was just not on the radar. I was considered a bit of an idiot and possibly played the role too well. Although I had one surprising breakthrough when I won the school Latin prize. I was a chorister in a high Church of England Cathedral. The test was based on translating Latin palms and prayers. I sang them in English every Sunday and got paid a shilling a time to do it.
 
There were perks of course. Religious Studies was held between 11.30 and 12.30 each school day and the Christian Brothers lived about 2 miles from the school. So, at that time the non-Catholics, there were two of us, would ride up the hill to the monastery and collect their midday meal, generally consisting of a sloppy meat stew and rice potatoes, the only variation occurring on a Friday. Struth, prisoners got fed better.
 
Now to this exception, one that possibly turned me off religion for the rest of my life. Some of the boys who came at the school were from the Sisters of Mercy orphanage and the Christian Brothers were more or less surrogate fathers to them. A couple of the boys were caught shoplifting. I don't think it was anything big, but the Sisters brought them to our Head Brother to be dealt with. Now if the boy were given a severe talking to, six of the best with the leather strap and taken to the shopkeeper to apologize it would have been expected. The head brother, a brother Fox, who was well liked, at least till this incident, called a school assembly.  In front of all the students he put the boys across a vaulting horse and thrashed them. THRASHED being the operative word. The assembly finished with a prayer.
 
Frankly I was horrified and felt sick. From then on, I looked at religion, all religions, with distrust and working on the principle of ‘Be reasonable, do it my way, else I’ll BBQ you in Hell’.
 
Merv Beamish
June 2022

As I reflect on the tragedy of Gaza, trying to make sense of it, I find myself returning to Tim Bowtell’s mural quoting Gandhi ‘An eye for an eye’ makes the whole world blind’, and a philosophy imprinted upon me during my childhood, ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right’.

My parents, Tony and Paula Lee, were married in 1942, when my father returned from the Middle East before going to New Guinea. 

I remember them having many shared values and working as a team to parent us.  They both believed in education, both loved to read.  We were never distracted by them or allowed to be distracted if we were reading a book. 

They always backed one another up if we went to them about claims of wrongdoing by a sibling, ‘What did your mother say?’ ‘What did your father say?’, and a consistent approach would always be taken.   They probably debriefed about it later to be sure they had taken the right approach, working out a way to guide us in similar situations if necessary.

A joint approach I remember so strongly is that they both applied the philosophy ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right’, when approached trying to defend a shattered ego.
 
I could become so angry when I was young – ‘It’s not fair!’.  My brother, who loved to tease me, was often the cause of the righteous indignation, frustration, sometimes despair, which would lead me to present a case for a parental decision.  If there was any hint at my having, or wanting to, retaliate, I would be reminded, once again, that ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right’.
 
Having to recognise and deal with my anger, to learn not to retaliate, when I was younger helped me to become more resilient.  Applying the philosophy ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’, become second nature. 
 
While I learnt how to ‘put my anger down’, to recognize and overcome intense emotional reactions, I’m not so sure that I learnt how to communicate to resolve concerns.  This is the ‘other side of the coin’ in terms of peace making.  I may have become good at ‘self-talk’ to calm myself down, but not quite so good at using an assertive problem-solving approach to meet my needs.   If I had my time again, I’d like to have more memories of them modelling getting us together and mediating, though perhaps they did.

Looking back, I believe that, having lived through two World Wars, one only recently at that time, my parents’ philosophy of non-retaliation was deeply rooted.  They certainly took a dim view of retaliation, conditioning me to think twice whenever I needed a reminder that ‘two wrongs don’t make a right!

Beverley Lee
​May 2025

A question to Chat GPT - What are the features of the philosophy 'Two wrongs don't make a right'? How useful is in in conflict resolution, both small and large scale?

​A 'Cut and Paste' of the response....  

​England had suffered 2000 civilian losses, as well as nearly 700,000 from the combined British Empire in the First World War. The after effects on the English population was a country that was in dire financial straits, with returned soldiers being prioritised for jobs and the civilian population suffering from extreme poverty. Because of the lack of jobs my father, William James Hall, better known as Jim, became a £10 Pom, emigrating to Australia in 1923 at the ripe old age of 17.

When Jim first arrived in Australia, even though he was a qualified fitter and turner, he found it difficult to get a position that suited his trade. He worked on all sorts of job programmes, even grubbing out Mallee roots in the Western District on blocks set aside for returning soldiers from the War. He cleaned railway carriages, drove sheep and did general farm work. He gradually moved onto Tallangatta and got a permanent job on a farm where he met my mother. They married in September 1936 and by the time he was called up to the Army in 1940 they had three children.

Jim went on to become an important part of the team that finessed the treatment of rust in guns called the “Bluing Treatment.” This method helped to cut down the rust and corrosion on the guns, saving money in the war effort. It also cut down on the glare reflecting off the gun barrels, so important in combat conditions. The barrels were treated with a combination of Sodium Hydroxide and Potassium Nitrate in a solution heated to 200 degrees Celsius or 392 degrees Fahrenheit.  Sadly, my dad, was in hospital with severe burns when the big brass came and heaped praise upon the team for their excellent work.

When Jim was discharged, he returned to Tallangatta. By this time the children numbered six. He obviously had a bit of leave in between. The increasing need for irrigation water, and the near completion of the Hume Dam wall, meant it was only a matter of time before the Old Town would be under water.  They had to weigh up whether to stay, or move on to a bigger town, with a possibility he would eventually get a job as a Fitter and Turner. This was accomplished in 1947 and we moved to Wangaratta. We moved lock, stock and barrel, in the back of a truck, with Mum nursing the latest baby on her knee beside the driver.

As the family matured, one of the older brothers joined the Army serving in Borneo and Thailand, another brother did his National Service. Jim passed away in 1975 and Mum in 1987. We took the Grandchildren back to Tallangatta to acquaint them with their history and saw the monuments to the soldiers in the Gardens. Those monuments were dedicated to all of the soldiers who served, not only overseas, but here in Australia. Which is as it should be. They all contributed to the War Effort.

​

Kathy Beattie
​May 2025

​Having been born in London in 1942, it wasn’t hard to bring back my early memories. My street was bombed day and night, as we lived very close to a railway line. In fact, my Grandad had a newspaper spot. No! Not shop, (that had been bombed in 1941), but a spot under the steps of the station.
 
My father was in the R.A.F., so it was easier for my mother and I to live with my grandparents.  All three were trained as Wardens and had certificates to allow them to treat the wounded. When the sirens went off, two would patrol the streets, and one would stay home to supervise me.

​I was taught, when the sirens started, to head for the oak dining room table. I would stay there until one of them came looking for me. Then if we had time, we would head to the shelter at the bottom of the garden. The same applied if a plane flew over.
 
I quite often woke up to find strangers bunked down in our lounge room. Their wounds had been dressed, broken bones supported.  Others were suffering from trauma.  It was amazing what a cuddle from a three-year-old did for them.
 
Nan, Grandad and Mum helped so many people. American, Canadian, Australian and British Soldiers, as well as Civilians. Mostly from the trains, but also people whose houses had been bombed. I moved into Mum’s room most nights, to free up beds.
 
The respect my family received from the people in our district after the war finished was wonderful.
 
Dad returned, and we bought a house two doors from my grandparents. There were five of these Terraced double brick homes still standing, Dad reckoned if the war couldn’t damage them, that was good enough for his family!
 
One thing that didn’t change was my rush to get under the oak table every time I heard a plane fly overhead.  In fact, I was eleven when Mum said, “You know, eleven-year-old students going to High School might look a bit strange, ducking under a desk or table, every time a plane flew over”. Somehow that worked!
 
A letter arrived in 1948 from one of the English soldiers, the family had cared for. Terry had suffered burns to his arms and feet. He tried to rescue an old lady from the train, but she didn’t make it. He stayed with us longer than most, due to trauma. He had lost his parents and young brother and sister when their house was bombed in 1941.
 
Terry was now a Grenadier Guard at Buckingham Palace, He had fallen in love with a girl from a suburb close bye. He wanted us all to come to his wedding, and “…would Nan and Grandad be his parents for the day?” Naturally they were thrilled, and the night before the wedding, he stayed with them.
 
Imagine our surprise the next day when we were waiting for the cars to arrive. Here was Terry standing on the top step, in full red and black uniform with his busby under his arm. Mum took some photos, and people stopped to look. Two cars arrived to take us to the Church. It was a day of sunshine. Not just the weather, but for our family too.
 
 
Jan Nicholls
April 2025

In our family we spoke three languages. The King’s English, Sarcasm and Expletives. The family eventually included four humans - Mum, Dad, my brother Brian, myself - and a few attachments in the form of dogs, cats, other animals and artists.
 
In 1938 Brian, my elder brother, was born at Shoreham-by-Sea, Sussex, England.  The little chap had a quite eventful and life altering early few years. He couldn't piss for a few weeks and was in severe pain. Then, a couple of years later, while playing with his mates in a playground, he was strafed by a German dive bomber, the pilot being either a terrible shot, or a very good one who only wanted to scare the kids.
 
The family lived halfway between a shipyard and a British fighter airfield. Dad later claimed more Polish fighter pilots were lost from doing victory rolls than in combat.
 
Brian was hurt when a de Havilland bomber fatally crashed at the airfield and saw the pilot and other personnel engulfed by flames.
 
Eventually Mum and Dad sent him to a school in the country to get away from the war and it was hit by a doodle bomb*.
 
Needless to say, Brian was quite affected by these experiences.
 
To top all that off, I was born 1943 and he now had a cantankerous little brother to deal with.
 
Brian died in 2014 in Brisbane. At his funeral, after a relative gave a summary of the
wonderful things he achieved in life, I was asked to speak.
 
My eulogy began “If you asked me, as a young boy, what I thought of my brother, I would probably have replied with a number of unpublishable expletives.”
 
I pity Mum and Dad. They had an uphill battle to keep us from killing each other. It might sound like we hated each other, but on the contrary, we always looked out for each other. No kid on the block would dare bully me without answering to my brother. A bit like the scene in the film ‘Wednesday” where Wednesday Adams confronts her brother's bullies at the swimming pool. She informs them that she is the only person that bullies her brother – then releases barracuda into the pool.
 
Brian had a dual personality, rough stand up to anyone and the soft help anyone. I don't remember him ever telling a lie, other than to protect me. I used to lie, cheat and negotiate my way out of most situations.
 
Brian was the person I'd go to for advice about boy’s matters or frustrations at school. About the time I was paying significant attention to my mother’s Life Drawing anatomy books, he told me how he and his mates would play cowboys and Indians at night on the local airfield. The boys would chase their dubiously dressed, or otherwise, girlfriends in their cars … in that case, I’m not sure if that was help or hindrance.

I finished my eulogy “I’ll wait to say goodbye to Brian ‘til next time I go walk about, as I’m prone to do. I’ll light a campfire and sit, and we’ll chat until the embers dim and the blue smoke dissipates to the sky. That is when we’ll say our goodbyes.”
 
Actually, I accidentally said ‘bushfire’ instead of ‘campfire’, which had the whole church laughing.  I think Brian would have enjoyed that.

​“School is a shock; at the age of four we sit in desks all day and learn the first half of the first-grade year.  Our teachers are very strict.  It’s a time of children being seen and not heard; we are not allowed to move or speak.  It’s a soul-destroying experience.  Some children have holes in thin clothing and no shoes and in the winter their legs and feet are caked with mud, and they have continually runny noses.
 
Gas producers are now attached to the back of most cars, because of the fuel shortages and petrol rationing.  There is very little traffic as most cars have been put up on blocks until after the war.
 
Mother is packing food parcels for her sisters in England.  Dried fruit, flour, spices, all the ingredients to make a really large fruit cake, go into a large square parcel that is sewn into calico and double wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.  As most of the food for England is imported, they are now down to one quarter of their normal food rations.
 
These are the days of military conscription for all men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.  With so many men and women joining the defense forces there are not enough workers to maintain essential services at home.  Industrial conscription, the so called ‘Manpower’, is a necessity, directing labour into munitions factories and other services.  When my older sister Maureen leaves school, all the girls from her class are employed by the T&G Insurance Company in the city.
 
All manufacturing is now concentrated on the war effort.  Luxuries have been cut down.  Each family has ration books with coupons for food and clothing.
 
Clothes manufacturing is considered one of these non-essential industries, so no one has many clothes.  This is not altogether the fault of rationing as no one has the money to buy them.  It doesn’t matter; we can only wear one dress at a time anyway.
 
‘The Sun News Pictorial’ and ‘Age’ and ‘Argus’ newspapers have headlines about the war and maps of where the fighting is on the front pages.  It’s stale news.  There is a slogan, ‘Loose lips, sink ships.’  Mail to and from the troops overseas is censored and some letters have more holes than writing.
 
Each house must have black out blinds; no chinks of light can be shown.  This is policed at night by air raid wardens who knock on your door if any light can be seen.  Mother goes to air raid practice every Thursday night.
 
Householders have been advised to dig air raid shelters.  Everyone is digging up their back yards.  Then we have a wet winter and the trenches fill up with water.  We sail toy boats in ours.  I only ever heard of one that was completed, roofed over, seats, carpet and all.  It fell in when it rained. 
 
At school it’s a different matter.  They are serious about air raids.  Four long open trenches, over six feet deep have been dug in the area where the boys played football.  When the Black Rock air-raid practice siren goes we march into the trenches and sit silently, cross legged on the ground with wooden pegs in our mouths for over an hour, until the siren is turned off and quiet reigns once more.  We are told that the pegs will stop us inhaling gas, but they are really to stop us from biting our tongues if a bomb drops nearby.
 
The older boys like to bully us and say, “Do you believe that if you say ‘Heil Hitler’ three times he will come and take you away from your Mother?”  “No.”  “Then say it!”  We run off, tight lipped. 
 
Children are always talking about, “If the Japs come.”  As younger children, this makes us feel very insecure.  We know that if there is an air raid we can all be evacuated straight away with the school.  Some of the kids have fathers at the war.  They don’t talk about them.  They are used to it now.  Life is very uncertain for us, but we are happy and resilient and accept it without question, because it is all we have
 
14/8/1945.  The war is over, peace has been declared!
 
Dad has had the bulldozer at home at Black Rock doing repairs on it.  He has been wondering how he can get away with driving a dozer with caterpillar tracks on sealed roads to the foreshore to load it onto the truck from a sand hill.   Everyone is out driving, going crazy.  What an opportunity!  He sets off; the tracks are chopping up the sealed road…  People in cars are tooting and waving flags at him and cheering.  They think that he is driving a bulldozer down Beach Rd to celebrate the end of the war!
 
Everyone is flocking into the city tonight to celebrate.”
 
 
Bev Morton
April 2025
 
 
A 'slice of life' from Bev's almost completed autobiography