The year was 1998 and Patricks’ Stevedores were the major employer under Chris Corrigan on the waterfronts in Australia.  Traditionally the men (and they were all men) belonged to the MUA (Maritime Union of Australia).  This union had a strong membership and yes, they were very militant about worker’s conditions.  Chris Corrigan, a wealthy man, headed up the company and was answerable to the shareholders.  Both he and they wanted to break the hold of the union on the Australian waterfront.

To do this Patricks’ had had men flown to Dubai, mainly ex-army fellows, to be trained as stevedores and guards.  One day, at the time of a shift change, the Webb Dock in Melbourne was suddenly swarming with armed guards with angry guard dogs in tow demanding that the crane drivers step down from their cabins and hand over their keys.  In other words, they were being locked out of their work.
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Now, I’m a Union girl.  I have been since I started teaching in Wodonga Primary school some 55 years ago with 50 students in the one room and on less pay than the teacher next door with exactly the same conditions.  He got more pay because he was male.  The only people who seemed to care about this situation were in the union.  Thus started a life time of union meetings and ALP membership.  Being a unionist and ALP member hasn’t been without its heart ache or disappointments, but there remains a fundamental basic support for the belief that workers have the right to work, the right to organize and the right to withhold their labour.  It was natural to me to support the MUA members.

We were living in Melbourne at the time although we had family here in Benalla.  Naturally being a very conservative town there were many supporters of the lockout by Corrigan including the Victorian Farmer’s Federation (VFF) Benalla Branch and long term and current councillor, Peter Davis.  Peter was widely known at the time to have volunteered for crane driving training and to have volunteered for Patricks' on the water front during the strike.  
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The call went out from the MUA for other unions and supporters to come to the waterfront.  So, I went, not for the days and nights given by the unionists, but I felt my contribution of a day was at the very least one of support.

There was not a great deal the Union and supporters could do other than stand vigil at the gates.  It was, and still is now, illegal to go on strike or prevent others from entering the place of work.   All the fighting went on in the courts, with many legal eagles giving the unions support while others gave similar support to Patricks.  In the end, the Unions won the court case, however they lost the battle as a follow up agreement between the union and Patricks meant many lost their jobs.   

Patricks eventually went broke and lost out to Toll.
 
The union (MUA) is still active and peace reigns on the waterfront.
 
Carole Marple
May 2017

Sometimes I feel my whole life has been a whole series of failures.  Then I remember my kids and grandchildren and joy in life returns. Take last Saturday, for instance, when Shannon, our youngest grandchild, played in her netball school team’s first game for the season and they won the match. Nothing to do with me cheering on the sidelines, but joy in my heart for Shannon who played well in wing defence.

I have mentioned before in these writings of my struggles with dyslexia.   While this usually expresses itself through an inability to spell, it effects other memory based skills as well such as music or remembering facts for exams.

Now, music was important in our family as I grew up because my mother was a professional singer.  We had a piano in the front lounge (or the ‘good room’) which we young children were not allowed in unless we were playing this instrument properly, such as scales and tunes from the piano lesson book one. I never got past the first page, let alone the second book.  Listening to and enjoying music was also valued by Mum, who often had the ABC radio playing opera or musicals to sing along with while cooking or ironing.

Then there was teachers’ college. The teaching rounds were fine, but subjects such as music had me tossed.  All those notes floating around, on top of which we had to learn the recorder, an instrument of no joy as far I was concerned. I managed to fudge my way through most assignments with help from the girls in my hostel, but the big test came when students had to show off their skills with the recorder with a one on one test with the lecturer.  I was doomed.  I played a few notes, but instead of saying, “I’m sorry this is beyond me”, I threw the recorder across the room saying – “Mark me down as failed”--and stormed out.
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Somehow, I managed to pass and pass well at Teachers’ College without Music in my overall marks.  My future classes always included music, thanks to the ABC music education programs, but recorders were never to see the light of day in my many and varied classrooms.
 
Carole Marple,
April 2017

​He was a thoroughbred, big horse of 16 hands, chestnut with two white socks, a white blaze, feet like dinner plates and too slow for the race track.  Dad, who owned and trained race horses, said I could have him to ride around the country dirt roads.  He suited me, being a big girl myself, just fine.  By this time, I was married to Godfrey with two children and we had moved back to “Greenslopes” on Goomalibee Road to help Mum and Dad on the phone while we both taught at Benalla schools.
 
‘Mr Nicksar’ as he was known, was a gelding.  His brother ‘Goomalibee’ was still ‘intact’ and raring to go with the fillies, so he, despite winning a few country races, was sold to a stud in Malaysia.
 
‘Mr Nicksar’ and I had a wonderful time participating as members of the Benalla Trail Riders Club on their monthly trail rides in the hills round Benalla and Mansfield districts.  All this could be arranged with a supportive partner, Godfrey and wonderful child minders, grandparents Jack and Grace, although I doubt if Jack had much of a hand in the child minding.
 
As happens with family farms, changes took place with Jack dying and my brother John and his wife Melanie finding making a living out of their small holding at Baddaginnie difficult, so we threw our lot in together and formed a partnership to run “Greenslopes”.  We were all four, and our children, dreamers for the future, extending the house and trying to make a go of the farm while holding down jobs.  But this is not a story of that venture, but of farming, the seasons and my horse.
 
‘Mr Nicksar’ had a rather good life for a castoff race horse, as he lived most days and week down in the back paddock in the shade of the gum trees alongside the creek.  I would wander down every few days with some hay.  On these occasions, we would have some long chats.  Well, I did all the talking, but he seemed to agree with a friendly nudge every so often.  I was lucky in that my brother was a farrier, so ‘Mr Nicksar’ had his feet well looked after.   With the occasional drench, a good hose and brush down, he would come up trumps for those monthly rides in the hills.
 
The seasons rolled on, but as is almost inevitable with farms, nothing really stays the same.  Although the weather is usually very reliabe in the North East, this time the rain started to stay away and we found ourselves in drought.  Changes had to be made.   The day arrived when all of us were at home discussion what to do with the stock.  My brother announced that the horse would have to go. 
 
Although I was rather upset and saddened at this turn of events, I knew it was what had to happen.  ‘Mr Nicksar’ had to go the way many horses go, that is, to the horse auctions.  We all hoped someone would buy him for a hack, but it was doubtful.
 
I’ve had other horses, but they were never as close as ‘Mr Nicksar’.

We had the Shirts, we had the Hats and Jumpers.  We had even changed our car for a Holden Rodeo so we could put the shiny new ladders on the roof for use in our new roles as 'Broulee Window Cleaners'.  Yes, we were forsaking Victoria for a new start on the south coast of NSW as the local window cleaners.  This was our way of starting afresh in a new village and state.

We letter boxed the Village and waited for the phone calls.  These were slow in coming, but come they did - the one thing that is constant in a village by the sea is the need to clean the windows of sand and salt. We also replied to advertisements in the local Bateman's Bay paper for cleaners for weekenders and holiday homes.   Now this work was not to make a fortune, but it meant meeting people and starting to learn the culture of NSW by the sea.  This all revolved around the surf club and possibly the local school.

In between all this activity we bought the only beach cottage we could afford with the intention of doing it up for our new home.  This exercise introduced a range of characters among the permanent residents.

Having always been interested in how communities tick, we discovered a local community group which met once a month, but didn't seem to have any agenda to watch over the community.  It didn't take long before we joined like minded community members and over drinks plotted a takeover of the community group, with the promise of more action on behalf of the village.  This led to the development of such things as markets by the beach and action to ban jet-skis in our bay.  All this entailed presentations to the Local Council and submissions for small grants for such items as a community notice board which Godfrey, with the aid of local members, built.

Conservation of the local area was also close to our hearts,  With the support and wisdom from others around us, we started a conservation group called "Nature Coast Marine Group". This often meant morning gatherings in wet suits to count fish and send off reports to the University of Tasmania which was coordinating the data.  Godfrey enjoyed this activity while I stayed home to make soup and scones for the returning heroes.

We didn't make a fortune with our window cleaning, but we did finish the house which we delighted in.  

All in all, we had a wonderful time at Broulee, but family ties called us back to Benalla where our grandchildren were growing up fast. It also gave us the chance to wallow once again in Victorian culture, which we had missed.


Carole Marple
February 2017

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Like everyone I had four grandparents, except one had died and was spoken of in hushed voices. My brother, eighteen months older and the first born male, which was important in those days, was named after him.  He was my father’s father and his name was James.  He had died of a brain tumour and apparently his last few years had been traumatic for the family.

The other three were interesting as far as grandparents go.  They never had the status of the dead but I loved them and they were important in my life.  Ida, Mum’s mother, was known as grandmother and Ethel, known as Pet or Mammy, was Dad’s mother.  Both were very different.  Ida was tall and upstanding while Mammy was round and soft.  Then there was Walter, Mum’s father, who was known as Grandpa.  He was still building houses in the new suburbs of Melbourne when I was a youngster.  He lasted the longest of my grandparents and yet he probably had the hardest life of my grandparents, having migrated from South Africa.

Walter’s story is an interesting one and I touch on it briefly here.  He was born in South Africa to a couple who had a timber mill.  Unfortunately, his father died and as women were unable to run enterprises such as a timber mill in those days, his mother married the manager, who turned out to be a violent man who bashed his mother.  Walter left home at thirteen, vowing to return when he was older and stronger, to deal with his stepfather.  This he did, horsewhipping the stepfather.  The magistrate on learning the story let him off with a warning. 

Walter saw action in the Boer War as a scout and after the war went on to be a champion bike rider and soccer player before leaving for Australia where he captained the South Melbourne Soccer Club.  It was in Melbourne tthat he met and married Ida who was born in New Zealand.  They had one daughter, Grace, who was my mother.
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Godfrey and I have been grandparents for 25 years and have watched our four grandchildren grow from babies to young adults now going to University or graduating, with only one, the youngest, still at secondary school.  While one boy spent a good deal of time with us as his parents’ divorced, I have resisted the call to babysitting so parents can work.  I know nowadays it is hard to get into childcare, but I also believe grandparents have a different role to play in a child’s life other than a substitute parent or childcare disciplinarian come teacher.  This it would appear is not a popular view of what grandparents are there for, as many of my friends take on child care and feel it is expected of them.  I’m sticking to my view that grandparents are there to be another dimension of love in their lives as it was for me with my Grandparents.
 
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My mother was the one who handed out most of the advice to me, personally, in our home. One piece of advice I remember was given when I was nineteen.  Dad had finally bought the farm out on Goomalibee Road he had longed for all his life.  Mum took me aside and said "Don't learn to milk the cow or it will be your job for the rest of your life.  Leave that task for the boys". So I never learnt to milk the cow and the boys had the daily battle with the house cow.

We had moved to Benalla a year before when I had finished Year 12, known in those days as Matric, in Melbourne.  The move was fine for me, but not necessarily so for my brothers and much younger sister.  I spent a year, known nowadays as a gap year, but not known of in those days, working in my parents' newsagents in Nunn Street.  There was no job in Benalla after the newsagency was sold or on the farm, so I applied to do what was my real love and that was teaching.  

But back to advice as set out by Mother.  One of her roles in life was to vet my boyfriends, which was fair enough, but not as I saw it as a young woman.  As I have mentioned in past stories, Godfrey was my school boyfriend, but there were others around the edges, who on looking back, must have been a constant worry to my parents.

First there was Max, my brother's cricket coach and captain coach of the Melbourne baseball team.  Max was much older than me.  He had access to events and places that impress a gullible teenager.  In desperation, the final advice from mum was 'You can't marry him, you will have ugly babies".  Well, that put a dampener on that little adventure.  Still, Godfrey stayed around and mum made a fuss of him.  We say now that she arranged the marriage.

The second friend who caused mum some worry was Harry, whose uncle owned the Greek cafe 'Garden of Roses' in Bridge Street near Millers.  Harry and his brother Steven had come out from Greece when they were fourteen and had worked in the shop ever since that day. They lived above the shop and rumour had it that their uncle was the wealthiest shop owner in town, but not in the social sense.  Greek boys were not acceptable boyfriends in those days for an Australian girl.  Mother's advice?   "You cannot marry someone who owns a fish and chip shop.   You will smell of oil and end up fat on chips".  So ended that romance.  Mind you, mum was sorely put out when Harry's family wrote from Greece saying he wasn't to marry an Australian girl!

So Godfrey prevailed and Mother was happy her advice had been taken.  

According to those who, on the whole, have never attempted to take a public office role within their community, as a former ‘Polly’ I’m supposed to be the ultimate example of ‘faking it’.

​In my own defence, I would say I’m no more guilty of faking it than the average person who puts an effort into living a peaceful life, trying not to upset family, friends and strangers alike.  For example, if greeting a friend who is dying of cancer you say how much better they are looking when you know they have only weeks to live.  After all, you are not going to say “Gee, Jenny, time seems to be running out for you”. 

Not the same thing I hear you say, so let us look at my life as a politician and let us see what you think after you have digested my story.

I took an active role in politics when I returned to Benalla with my two children and husband in tow, joining the Labor Party because these were people who espoused the same values I had about people and how we should and could live together.  I enjoyed the monthly meetings and especially liked taking the message out at election time hoping people would vote for our team.  I stood as a candidate, becaming active in various roles which often took me to Melbourne.

Without going into all the details, we eventually moved to Melbourne where I had a job close to a Minister in a Labor Government.  We had chosen Altona as our home branch as it was a working class suburb and close to the city.  As usual we joined up with the local branch which was generally run as a country branch based on friendships not factions.
 
By this time though I had joined a faction.  By making a stand each time I voted, I gradually found myself taking a stand to the left of the party.

Then there was a State redistribution of seat boundaries and Altona was made a new seat.  This took the factional ‘heavies’ by surprise.  They were even more surprised when I had the numbers in a vote for pre-selection
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At the same time there was division within the left about the sale of public utilities.  I joined those against the sale, becoming part of a group known as ‘the pledge group’.  These were my values, I didn’t compromise and that was my downfall.  The right and the left joined forces against ‘the pledge group’ and placed someone else in the seat of Altona.  I was heartbroken to be treated in such a way, but now I understand that is life if you don’t ‘go with the flow’, especially in a political party.
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So with this tale I submit that, in general, 'Pollies' don’t fake it any more than the general public, all of whom are doing their bit to make life as tolerable as possible.
 
Carole Marple
June 2016

This incident involves a horse, or in real terms, a pony.  I was lucky as a girl in primary school to have a dad who rode racehorses in the morning at nearby Caulfield Racecourse.  Along with many girls of that age I was rather keen on horses.  Black Beauty was my favourite story at that time!
 
In those days most of the racehorse stables were behind or alongside houses near the racecourse.  Each stable usually had a pony to keep the thoroughbreds calm and help lead the racehorses to track work each morning.  I guess most were geldings, though I had no idea about such things at that time.   
 
All this meant that, through Dad, I had access to ponies to sit on, sometimes led by Dad as he rode a horse through the streets of Caulfield, Brighton and even Oakleigh.  There is little doubt that the streets of suburban Melbourne had many fewer cars on them than today. 
 
Yes, I could rise to a trot, but did not know how to ride on my own.
 
One Sunday afternoon Dad, known around the racecourse as ‘Jack the Banker’ as he worked in the Victorian State Savings Bank during the day, decided it was time I learnt to ride by myself.  To this end, he took me and pony that belonged to a trainer to the end of a sandy lane which ran along the side of the racecourse.  He put me on the pony, instructing me to ride to the end, turn around and trot back.  Fine, except when I turned the pony at the end of the lane it bolted back to the stables, throwing me off as it turned!
 
‘Get back on and try again’ he instructed.
 
This went on several times before I got the idea that I had to hold the reigns firmly, that it was my job to control the pony and trot back to Dad.  Can’t say I was a quick learner, but I did learn to never give up and to listen to Dad’s instructions.  Mind you, pony club was not part of Dad’s life, so not encouraged for me.   I’m sure it would have been beneficial for my riding skills.
 
Throughout my teen years I spent many happy hours on a Sunday afternoon cleaning ponies from the stables, then riding them around Caulfield Park or along the middle of Dandenong Road to Oakleigh to see my school friend.  Both of these activities are now banned, firstly because it is not good environmentally for the park and secondly it is now too dangerous in Melbourne’s traffic. 
 
Moving to Benalla meant I had my own horse.  Dad took up training racehorses and I was able to ride horses that were too slow for the track but were large enough to take my weight.  Many a day was happily spent Trail Riding with the Benalla Club – all because Dad took me on that ride down “Sandy Lane” and told me to get back on that pony until I could control it.
 

Sport was an important part of my growing up and certainly part of our family life.  One of my earliest memories was of my father winning the professional running gift and bringing home the sash or, as I, a two year old still in a cot, called it, the 'swash'.  Now whether I can really remember it or it is family 'folk lore' I cannot be sure.

Dad had a sporting history of running and football. Mum never pushed her story of sporting glory as there was none to tell except a few games of tennis.

I was the eldest of four children.  The youngest didn't turn up until I was fifteen, so for most of my childhood it was me and my two brothers.  The elder of the two boys, James, had the burden of pressure that he was to play cricket for Australia and football for a league team.  As the girl, I was to facilitate this dream in whatever way possible.  Not that anyone spelled this out or ever said it out loud, it was just so.  This meant many hours bowling balls across the street to the future champion after school.  I never minded this at all as I was his sister and his fame would surely rug off on me.  And so it did.  He made the schoolboy's Victorian team in football, the Victorian cricket squad and Melbourne's 'Seconds' football team, though he didn't reach the heights which had been set.

But what of me?  I participated in whatever sport was going on at school.  As someone who suffered from dyslexia, sport was a great outlet.  Rounders, softball, netball (it was called girls basketball in those days), swimming, you name it, I played it.  Instead of standing each morning, as I usually did at primary school, as the dumb kid who could only get two out of ten for spelling, I stood as a member of the school team, whatever the sport, who went out early to help bring glory to our school.

I remember the first race I won for my high school.  In those days the whole school went to the meeting and my race was the first race.  As I hit the wall I could hear the roar of the other students.  I turned and waved to the wild cheering mass of purple and gold, our school colours. I was so proud of my school and rather pleased with my effort

Although I must confess that training was not my forte, at High School I won Sports Girl of the Year two years running.  Success in swimming was my main claim to fame and kept me going through those years.

My family came to Benalla when I was eighteen having finished Year 12.  Taking up whatever sport I could I ended up playing 'men's basketball' on a winning side and played hockey for Benalla.  

All I do now is take an interest in the football results.  

Does sport have a lasting impact on one's life?  Playing for a team was always my preference, as it was in my family and in public life.  

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“Mr Speaker.  This legislation before us today is of great importance.”  So I would start the many speeches I made under the chandeliers in the Lower House of the Victorian House of Parliament some twenty-four years ago.  Although they are recorded in Hansard they are not grand speeches that anyone is likely to quote in a future book or essay, these speeches were in their own way of importance in the running of State Parliament.  Jeff Kennett had had his first election win and we in the Labor Party were but a small collection of parliamentary members to carry the weight of Her Majesty’s Opposition.

Groups of people, especially those in Parliament, come with a wide range of life experiences.  Some come with limited experiences in life and the art of speech making, so feel intimidated by either those opposite or the general atmosphere of confrontation. 
 
I must confess to feeling very limited when I first stood to face those opposite, terrified of making a mistake or being tricked into looking a fool in front of my comrades, but we were a small group and those who could make a contribution had to do their bit.  Mind you, there were some who never made an offering after their first speech which could be a simple set piece about family and their electorate.  I was a shadow minister, so felt a responsibility to overcome any fear and push on whenever called on, which was often.
 
Where did this propensity to hold my head high and say what I believed in come from?  I’m not sure, but I had many a scrap in the school yard at Primary School if I thought my younger brothers were being given a rough deal and had been known to take on teachers who, in those days, were very hard on students who were different.
 
My first speech to an audience was at secondary school in Melbourne when called on to give a report on an exchange with a country school.  However, the speech I remember most was at Teachers’ College.  Again in front of an assembled throng, I made a speech to encourage female students to join in a variety of activities on Wednesday afternoons at our hostel for country students.  It was really a plan hatched to get us country students out of ‘clubs’ time at the College back to our hostel in another suburb of Melbourne for cocoa and raisin bread.  Unfortunately, even though it gained a good number of laughs, my speech was so successful we had a team of young first years to deal with for the rest of the year and never got back to that cocoa and toast.
 
I last used my limited skill in this speech making caper in our battle to get a new Library for Benalla when speaking to Council on the subject or when keeping the troops motivated to do the work needed to bring this needed new asset to our town.  I doubt if it will be needed in future, unless of course I take on the powers to be at the Nursing Home! 

It’s hard to pick a place of importance in my life as after we turned 21 and married we roamed Victoria and even ventured to the south coast of New South Wales.    However we always ended up back in the country town of Benalla.  So, Benalla it is.

I'd had a reasonably happy childhood in the suburb of Caulfield in Melbourne, Victoria, when at 18 my family bought a newsagency in Benalla.  We all moved to this country town with a telephone exchange, a post office, saleyards, railway and even a picture theatre.  House blocks in the main street acted as paddocks for a horse; telephones had handles which you would up to get the girl on the exchange who would put you through to the number you wanted.  All very new to me, coming from a city with automatic phones.

It was the social structure that really hit me.  As owners of the newsagency Mum and Dad were invited to judge the belle of the ball at Dookie.  This was a status that Mum and Dad had not had in Melbourne.  On top of that, my brother was a good cricketer so there was competition from a number of teams in the town for his services.  All of the children of the family were expected to help in the business; I worked in the shop while the boys did paper runs.

The town was in those days run first by the pastoralists, then the small business people, perhaps also the senior people of the shire and sometimes headmasters of the schools.  These were the members of Rotary.  This has changed over the years with decentralisation and a small flood of public servants who worked at the SEC headquarters; Telstra (then known as Telecom); Conservation; ‘the Ag’ and the Forestry Departments; and at a Vet Lab which supported the farmers.

The majority of the public servants disappeared with privatization.  We now have a town much more dependant on welfare recipients with limited input from retired or semi-retired people who have sold farms or city dwellers who have sold their expensive houses and have a restricted income.  Our service clubs are not the centre of action they once were.  Where once there were jobs young people leaving school could get as an apprentice or on the railways or even in our small factories, these are no more.  Our bright young students end up leaving Benalla for university rarely to return.  There is no longer a Benalla cricket competition.

Are there some bright spots?  Well, we have a young Mayor and Councillors who have the best interests of the town on their agenda.  But is the town ready to get behind them?  Have they got a future plan?  They might have, but I don’t know of it, which I guess means neither do the rest of the town.  A hard working Street Art Committee is bringing new life to tourism in the town.  I’m part of a strong band of volunteers, but we seem to become bogged down with issues such as ‘where to now for the piano at the art gallery?’. 

I guess it is leadership I’m looking for.  In my 75th year this is not going to come from me and I’m not sure where it will come from for our future.
 
Carole Marple

I’m not sure if 1956 was the year that made me, but as a Melbournian it was certainly interesting and for me personally, very exciting.  It was the year of the Olympic Games.  The streets were full of sailors in different uniforms and people of varying colours in varying tracksuits wearing footwear called thongs.
 
The most exciting thing about 1956 for me was that I started at Brighton High.
 
In those days there were schools called Central Schools where students did Years 7 and 8, getting their Credit Certificate ready to go into factory work.  I went to Caulfied North Central, which had been the school I went to through what for me were the horror years of primary school.

Central School opened the door to timetables; different teachers for each subject; softball instead of rounders; rooms upstairs and a uniform to be proud of in the marching team.  Most of all there were exams to see who was good enough to go on to the Macrobertson High School for girls, or Melbourne High School for the boys.

I wasn’t good enough for Macrob but was offered a position at a brand new high school being built at Brighton for the ‘Baby Boomers’.  It was certainly a building site and being a wet year in ’56 was awash, with sticky clay everywhere. 

I loved my new school and felt at home from day one.  Our school colours were purple, green and gold and I was in purple house, Grant by name. 

I was keen on all sporting activities and the first up were the swimming sports.  I had given up ballet lessons to follow up my first true love, swimming and had a great coach, Marj McQuade, who had swum for Australia in the Empire Games (later to be known as the Commonwealth Games)..  Dad had struck a deal for a free lesson with Marj, who was just starting out as a coach, so when I started winning races I could tell people Marj McQuade was my coach.  Perhaps I showed some talent for she agreed to this arrangement.  Anyway, I won first the house sports and then the inter-school sports. 

In those days all the students went to the sports, swimmers or not.  I became well known in the small population of our new school, so was voted into positions of responsibility such as Prefect.  I shudder now when I think of how I carried out the duties allocated to this role.

One of the tales I have told over the years that have passed since ’56 is of sitting in Year 9 History with Miss Drummond upfront trying hard to interest us in the importance of modern history to our everyday lives.

Dawne, who was sitting next to me and at the time was one of my best friends, whispered, ‘Which of these boys would you go out with?’.  ‘None!’ was my answer, as we girls at this stage liked our boyfriends to be more mature and outside of school.  For instance, I was keen at the time on the best diver, (who happened to be 18), at the Malvern Baths.
 
Dawne kept pushing as Miss Drummond droned on, so I looked around and picked out the redhead two desks over.  At that stage I wasn’t that sure of his name, let alone my ‘for better for worse’ destiny with the redhead two desks over.
 
So it was that 1956 was an important year in my life. 

Christmas, when I was a child, was always a wonderful time in our house, mainly because it started on Christmas Eve, my birthday.  Hence the name Carole.  Even though my mother never tired of telling me, or whoever happened to be listening, that my birth had been long and arduous and she had had to forgo Christmas dinner in 1941, she always made it a special day for me.

As there were a large number of cousins on my father’s side, they and their parents, Aunts and Uncles, made up the gatherings.  Uncle Frank brought the red cordial, why I’m not sure.   Our family was teetotal and the adults must have had to go without – or topped up the red cordial without my parents knowing!  Dad, who rode track work at the Caulfield Racecourse, would always make sure there was a pony from the stables to give the kids a ride.

The most memorable of these birthdays was when I turned twelve.  This may have been because an uncle brought a camera and there was a photo to remember it by, or it may have been that it was the first time I held the gathered groups’ attention, just as I was to do in politics well into the future.  Mum had organized a large, natural Christmas tree which stood in the corner of the front verandah.  How this came to be I’ll never know, but I can assume it was one of Dad’s schemes where he would tell someone a racing tip and get a Christmas tree in lieu.  Mum had hung a birthday present on the tree for every child at the party and I, as the birthday child, handed out each of the presents.

The other Christmas I remember was again as a child when I received Shirley, my sleeping doll.  The box was at the end of the bed with Shirley written across the lid.  I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.  It must have cost mum a pretty penny to buy her and money was always tight in our house.  My reaction to this Christmas present must have been ‘just right’ as it was spoken of often at family gatherings.  Mother for years later always made new outfits for Shirley for my Christmas stocking.

Christmas get togethers years on are not great gatherings at our home in Benalla.  The Marples have had many home bases over the years and it wasn't our family home when our children were growing up.   As grandparents, we now make sure we see both offspring and their partners and children on Christmas day.  One for lunch and for tea with the other, with small presents all round for the grandchildren, who now have partners.  So Christmas rolls on.  No family assemblies for my birthday now, which suits me just fine!

When confronted with the topic ‘A Test of Courage’,  I found it difficult.  I was pretty sure I hadn’t had to show any particular set of skills in this area throughout my life.  I have opted instead to discuss the areas of courage I have heard of during the past fortnight and what these actions mean to us as a modern western society.

In general terms I believe we, as a community, have some rather differing ideas about what constitutes courage.  Almost weekly we are harangued with stories of our brave young men at war, especially those stories pertaining to Anzac, which was, after all, an invasion of another country, Turkey.  This is not to take anything away from the young men who went off on an adventure to protect, as they believed, the Empire we belonged to through the use of guns to kill other human beings.   How does this differ in courage from the young 15 year old who took another life for a cause.  Didn’t he think he was at war in the society in which he happened to live?

Then there was the young woman who jumped into the ocean to save an even younger boy of nine years of age.  The boy lived and she died.  Is this courage or instinct to protect someone more vulnerable than one’s self?  After all, the first lesson in water safety is never to go in the water if there is someone in trouble, but to throw them a support or use a towel.  Easier said than done, especially if you were the older one sent to look after the child.

For me, the greatest courage shown on the news or in a program on mental health aired during Mental Health week goes collectively to the workers who strive to support people with mental illness in hospital and other health services for the mentally ill.  How do these workers keep returning each day when the problems continue and improvements are so small?  This takes courage, day after day, courage beyond what I could do despite working in the field of intellectual disabilities.  I could not work in this area, but am full of admiration and thankful some are strong enough and have the courage needed to face this huge task on our behalf. 

To cringe, as defined by each of the dictionaries we have at home, is to yield, to shrink, to bend or crouch, especially from fear.  Now fortunately I haven’t had this exact feeling.  Yes, I’ve been humiliated and embarrassed, but I’ve never to my knowledge crouched in fear.  After all, I have never had to face a fire or flood and never a violent intruder.
 
So let me explore some of these other areas of fear that have had an impact on my life.  I walk on my own sometimes, but not often.  I wonder why?  Is it a built-in fear at the back of the female mind of rape?  I can’t remember my mother speaking of this, but I do remember running as fast as possible through Caulfield Park in the early evening as a young teenager when I knew it was full of danger and that I should be going around the Park where the streets were well lit.

So to humiliation.  Yes, Primary School was full of humiliation.  If it wasn’t wetting my pants in the Infant section, it was my Dyslexia (a disorder causing impaired ability to read and spell), which resulted in being kept down in Grade 2.  My reading difficulties were overcome in the higher grades of primary school through a combination of the school’s library and librarian; my coming from a household with books on a large bookshelf and my mother reading stories to me and my brothers. Unfortunately the lack of spelling ability has remained with me all my life, right up until now, well into my seventies.  Although this has been humiliating when those who think they know more than me make fun of my mistakes, I have had great support from my mother and my husband, both good spellers.  Today, with the wonder of Spell Check, there aren’t as many moments of humiliation.

Then there is embarrassment, of which there are several moments.  One keeps coming back to me when falling asleep at night.  Many years ago I was the Shadow Minister for Agriculture in the State Parliament, so often took my turn at the dispatch box when a bill of low priority was passing through the Parliament.  On this particular day the Liberal members of the Government tricked me into believing we would break early for lunch after we closed up a bill on companion animals.  Instead of breaking for lunch ten minutes early, they brought on a bill of importance, one they knew the Labor party wanted to argue against.  For the life of me I cannot remember what the bill was, except that Brumby , our leader, wanted to speak on the subject .  By default I had misled the whip and the leader’s room.  No great issue, but a relevant and embarrassing moment for me.

So I don’t cringe, but have waves of feelings close to humiliation and embarrassment when I think of the moments described --and possibly others, too many to mention. 

“What about your sister?  She was going to be your flower girl!” said my shocked Mother.

“That’s fine, she still can be”, I said.  

I had just told my mother the banns had been read at our local church in Wodonga and that we were to be married in two weeks time.

We had been going out together for four years since school and engaged for nine months.  Mother had planned a ‘big-ish’ wedding in the family town of Benalla.

“Has Godfrey been pressuring you?” was the next question.

“Heavens, no” was my reply.  “It is more that I can’t stand it any longer and we are not waiting another day, let alone six months till September.”

Nowadays this all seems silly, with most couples sleeping together before or just after the first date. Couples live together long before there is any suggestion of a wedding.  There is little doubt that ‘The Pill’ has enabled this freedom.  

Nowadays no one has to go through the years of frustration and the light and heavy petting we did in the late fifties and early sixties.  Yes, the pill was developed then, but it was not openly discussed.  The only articles described the problems that may happen, especially for women, as though women who used the pill were wicked.

What kept us on the straight and narrow was the ever present disgrace of pregnancy.  We knew enough about sex and its results, even if our parents never spoke of that driving force.
 
The other consideration was we were were regular church goers and it just wasn’t done for us.  
We need not have worried on that score as everyone thought we were expecting, which came as a shock to me!  Even my wonderful old grandfather wrote to my mother (his daughter), telling her it was all her fault as she had allowed me to bath with my brothers when we were little.  Such were the times.

The fortnight went by with mum making the flower girl’s dress.  I wore a white (yes, it definitely had to be white) dress I had used as a bridesmaid’s dress and borrowed a veil.  Godfrey wore his one and only suit and the thin tie of the time with some artificial orange blossom in his lapel.
 
The organist was late – held up by the train crossing which was in the main street – so I had to stand around outside the church wondering if Godfrey was inside.  We had a half a dozen guests and some of the children and their parents from the class of fifty I was teaching at Wodonga Primary School.

‘For Better or Worse’, we headed off to Wagga, then up the centre of NSW to Lismore, sometimes camping and sleeping in the car, our only possession, making sure we got back to Albury for footy training on Thursday!
​
Fifty three years and many changes in social attitudes later we are the survivors of those strange times.  

​“Tell us one of your stories, Grandma”, pleaded the children.
 
“Tell us, tell us” chorused Sam and Frances together.  

“Alright, alright – but bed as soon as I have finished”, said Grandma.  “Snuggle down on the couch with the pillows between us and I’ll tell you all about a special fairy who happens to live in our garden here at 73 Benson Street, Benalla.”

“Here is the story”.

“Have you ever wondered why Grandma and Grandpa have a Flowering Gum tree in their garden, no matter where we happen to live?  Well, there is a reason.  You see an exceptional fairy called Ms Blossom always comes to stay in that tree.  Now she is very fussy about her title – she is not Miss or Mrs but Ms Blossom and she has particular powers”.

“Where does she live in the tree?” asked Sam.

“Interesting you should ask.  Most of the year she lives in the gum nuts which develop on the tree after it has flowered.  Then, when the buds are forming in November and December she starts flying from one collection of buds to another, hoping their little caps will burst off and out will come the beautiful crimson flowers with their golden tips.   All this usually happens just after Christmas when Ms Blossom sets up home in one of the beautful flowers.  She does this so she will get the magic golden dust on her wings so she can do her spells in Grandma’s home”

“What magic is that, Grandma?” asked softly spoken Frances.

“Well, you know how Grandma often loses things in her home?  The thing is, Ms Blossom also knows of this dilemma and so slips into Grandma’s home and shifts one or two things ever so slightly.  Lo and behold, Grandma can see the missing item and is as happy, as happy as can be.”

“Remember when Grandma lost her gold earring with the gum tree on it?  Well, I looked and looked for days and days.  I’m sure Ms Blossom fixed it, because weeks later I found the missing earring on the floor in front of the dressing table.  I know it wasn’t there before.”

“That is not the whole fairy story”, continued Grandma.  “You know at the bottom of Grandma and Grandpa’s Flowering Gum was a pond?  We have filled it in and this is the reason why.  When it was a rather shallow and dirty pond a very, very naughty goblin lived in it.  One day, while Ms Blossom was sleeping in her favourite gum flower this naughty goblin climbed up the tree and stole Ms Blossom’s precious dusted wings.  He hid them in another part of the tree, thinking he was very clever playing a trick on Ms Blossom.”

“Now, don’t worry,” comforted Grandma.  “Ms Blossom’s friend, the elf Jimmy who happens to live in the wattle tree two bushes down from Ms Blossom’s flowering gum, came to the rescue by finding Ms Blossom’s wings.  Between them they glued the wings back on with magic dew drops and Ms Blossom was able to get back to her main job looking after grandma’s lost items.”
​
“Now, it’s time for bed my lovely ones”

“No, no!” cried Sam and Frances.  “We want more stories!”
​
“Another day -  I’ll tell you another day all about the other fairies who live in Grandma and Grandpa’s natives garden.  Good night, kids.  Sleep tight knowing the excellent fairies and happy pixies and elves are just outside your bedroom windows at Grandma and Grandpa’s”.

Cars were not common in our street in the 1950's.  Solid brick houses, yes - but even phones were a rarity.  We had a phone but not a car.  A phone because my father was a 'tipster'*.  We lived in the Melbourne suburb of Caulfield and Dad rode track work in the mornings, worked in the State Savings Bank during the day and trained professional runners in the early evening.  An unusual father to say the least, but we owned our own home and as Mum didn't go to work he was a good provider who had control of the purse strings. 

I remember as a child that it was a big deal in the family when Dad's sister Aunty Dora and her husband Uncle Malcolm set off to a holiday to England on the liner Orcades, accompanied by  streamers and much waving!  I wasn't privy to the conversations, but apparently Dora and Malcolm were to buy a car for Mum and Dad while they were over there and bring it back.  Why it was better to buy a car in England was all a mystery to me.  Perhaps it was because in those days all things British were considered best, perhaps because it was to be Dad's car as head of the house.  

Whatever the reason, a Vauxhall Wyvern came to be housed in our large back yard (well it seemed large to me at the time), with no one in the family with a licence to drive it!  Our neighbour came with charts on how and when to change the oil, but still it stayed housed in the garage next to the chook pen, never moving for months.  

Why Dad never ventured into car driving was just another one of those family mysteries that children never ask about.  Perhaps as an interesting achiever of sorts he was frightened of failure for he never showed any aptitude to anything mechanical all his life.

Unbeknown to anyone, as we older kids were at work and dad was at work, mum took driving lessons and got her licence.  How she afforded it out of housekeeping I'm not sure--she probably used the money she made from selling eggs which I took around to neighbours on my bike.  Mum told me her secret, but not my younger brother, saying she wasn't going to continue catching trams with a baby in a pram when there was a perfectly good car in the garage. 

Mum wasn't brave enough to take the car out without telling Dad but finally told him she would if he didn't get his licence.  This was enough to push him into doing just that, but he always preferred public transport so left the car for mum who pursued her singing lessons.

The Vauxhall stayed with the family for many years, coming to Benalla in 1960.  After running the Nunn Street newsagency for a year Mum and Dad bought a farm on Goomalibee Road.  This seemed a long way to ride the bike to activities, so the Wyvern was used to learn to drive.  Dad always said I ruined the car learning to drive, but I think it was more likely his using it for carting hay!  Besides, he needed a bigger car to pull his horse floats. 


*A 'tipster' was a person who provided racing tips to others. 

I wish I could, I really do, but somehow it won’t go away, really go far away and leave me at peace.  I say I am quitting but somehow it is there, nagging to be done and there is no rest until it is attacked.  And what is this dreadful conflict that hangs over me day in day out? What is this horrific burden I carry throughout daily life?  It is not an addiction or anything that is a life and death decision, no, it is the ever present burden of house work. Yes, I know it is a first world problem and I should be pleased I have a roof over my head to worry over, but after fifty-two years of making homes and keeping them clean I’ve had it up to here.

I guess it is the repetitiveness of the tasks involved that gets me down.  No sooner have I dusted the dressing table, the heater or the TV than I notice the next day it needs doing all over again.  Yes I’m good at turning my back on it all, but there comes a time when one must tackle the picture frames and the skirting boards behind the doors.  Then there are the toilets, useful items I’ll admit and by far an improvement on the toilet can down the back yard in its weatherboard enclosure that the night man picked up from the cobbled lane which crisscrossed the streets of Melbourne of my childhood. While it is wonderful to have two now in the home, it is double the work.   Every good keeper of a house knows they need cleaning once a week and that they must have blue stuff, somewhere near the bowl preferably, so a discerning visitor can see proof of cleaning skills.

I have two friends who keep their homes in perfect order.  Everything is neat and tidy, not a thing out of place.  No guilt for them.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they are frightened of visitors however, as I have yet to be offered the casual cupper to make these picture perfect houses untidy.

The one modern house item I really appreciate is the washing machine. I can’t help thinking of my mother struggling with the fire lit copper and using the copper stick to haul the sheets from the copper to the rinsing troughs each time I push the buttons to start the ever reliable wonder horse.

I’ll admit I have quit most repetitive tasks around the house thanks to a supportive and cheerful partner who has taken up the roles of vacuum person, dishwasher and assistant in keeping the shower recess in ship shape order, but I have yet to shake off the burden of responsibility.  

The guilt, oh the guilt, hangs around my shoulders like a wet blanket.  Will I be ever free of guilt when I say I have quit the need to be accountable for household cleanliness and picture book neatness?

I wish, yes I wish …