It was the third Saturday in September and Grand Final day for the Ballarat District Football League.  It was time for Buninyong to show its colours! 
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We played in the Essendon colours of red and black, so there was much to uphold. So far during the 1968 season we had only lost one game  and that was against Gordon in the snow. (This was according to the football records of 1968.)  (Incidentally, there were numerous amendments to these records due to the wipe outs caused by heavy snow falls.)

There was now only one game that mattered and that was the Grand Final against Sebastopol.

At the beginning of the season I had been asked by the newly appointed coach, Jeff Mc Cubbery, to move with him from the Ballarat team to Buninyong.  My main talent in those days was that I could run even time, that is a hundred yards in 10 seconds.  Jeff was only a yard behind me and the rest of the team were also young and fit.  Jeff was a great coach and leader of this then small town team keen to show, what we thought was the world, that we were the best football team outside of Ballarat.

One of the keys to being a successful football team, especially in Australian Rules football, is that the players who play in the forwards position need to kick in a straight line.  Some players, in fact, some teams, are very good at it.  The secret to this success is based on geometry.  A number of players try to gain extra distance by hooking their foot around the ball.  This sometimes works, but often drags the ball off line, resulting in a point or what is called ‘out on the full’.

As mentioned before we did rather well during the season and it came about that my name was on the team list for the Grand Final.  However, I was notified by my employer I had to go to Stawell to work in a shearing shed as the wool classer in Grand Final week, which meant I could not make it to practice on Thursday night. A cardinal sin in Australian Rules.

Would the coach let me play on the Saturday?  I did some training in the dark by moonlight and exercises each night after tea at the shearing shed.  I returned to Buninyong after working the week at Stawell to find that my name was on the list with the task to protect our forwards from the tough Sebastopol backs.

It was an even game right up to the last quarter.  We were four points down when the back man punched me in the head right in front of the umpire, who awarded me the free kick!  I tried to hand the football on to our forward.  The umpire would have none of that and said I had to take it.   Players and spectators held their collective heads and breath.  

I remembered I had been the goal kicker in another League and that now was the time to put the geometry theory to the test.  I kicked the ball and it went straight through the goal posts. We hit the front when the siren blasted. 

We had won the premiership!
 
Godfrey Marple,
May 2017
556 words

Jumping up and down in the one spot waiting for my number to be called in the high jump competition to indicate that it was my turn to attempt the next height level. This was the scene at Olympic Park one day in October around 1958. 

It was my turn at the next height. The scene was set at the Open Schoolboy’s Athletic competition.  I needed to clear this height to remain in the competition.

The best height I had cleared so far this season was five feet five inches in the old measurement and the world record stood at six foot five.  It was only 10 inches below the world record, which may seem an in creditable figure.  But high jump records were very low compared to other disciplines. At the most recent Olympic Games the title was held by E. J. Winter, representing Australia on the world stage.  The current record was recorded at Helsinki Finland.

Back to concentrating on the job at hand.   Here I am staring at the cross bar which was at about eye level.   Mentally, I thought all I needed to do was lift.

I thought on the day my efforts would be rewarded.  The conditions I had been training under were sub-standard for high jump  due to the rough surface, the stony hard run up to be negotiated and a wind factor almost at the point of billowing on most practice days.

Although I had never met the Olympic champion E J Winter and could not personally gain or claim credit from his inspiration,  there were several other world class performers at these athletic meetings.  Still waiting at my designated jump start position and keeping my eye on the High Jump Steward for direction, I ran the names of these outstanding competitors through my memory bank: Chilla Porter, Queensland & Australian champion; Colin Ridgway, Victorian Champion who lived in Preston; John Vernon, brother of Katie Vernon, Victorian sheep farmers living at Lismore, Victoria.  All these people could jump over six feet, whereas I could only clear the bar at five feet five inches.

Olympic rules stipulate that a competitor can attempt to clear the cross bar on three attempts.  Having failed to jump over the bar on the third attempt, this competitor will be eliminated and so the competition continues until all competitors are eliminated. Here I am still waiting for the High Jump Steward to indicate I could proceed.  The tension is mounting.

The Steward has given me the nod that all is clear to make my first attempt  

Bingo! I have cleared the first jump

All the other competitors have been though by now and it is back to my turn again

Unfortunately this time, my first, second & third attempts are unsuccessful and that is the end of the competition for me.  Failure.  No new records for me, not even a second placing.

However E. J. Winter’s brother approached me, offering to take me on as a Pole Vaulter.   I competed at Pole Vaulting until I moved to the country to work.
 

​Godfrey Marple
April 2017

I have seen many changes in the judging of fleeces at country shows from Wentworth to Hamilton through to the big one at Royal Melbourne where I ended up the Chief Judge during the 1990’s.  There has been a battle between the subjective, that is the method by which the judge in the old days wore a white coat and was full of mystery as to how the result was obtained and the objective method which I championed at the wool show in Castlemaine.  With the objective method, everything is measured, added up and the winner proclaimed.  This method was first developed by French wool processors hoping to gain an advantage over the British by producing a better-quality uniform during the Napoleonic wars.

The subjective method still prevails without the white coat or even the lunch with CWA cakes and sandwiches.  A certain number of points are given out of 100 for things such as trueness to type, soundness, handle or character and style.  Nowadays there is a shortage of wool classers willing to the juging and locally I or my son are in demand, but with eyes not what they used to be I have to say no to requests.  Sadly, no one is willing to put on a show with the objective method as it is too much like hard work and time consuming.  Small country shows battle on, with some shows changing the fleece show to the most valuable fleece which is much quicker all round.  It must be said that wool judges claim, and I agree, that the wool section of an agricultural show is the only section that is accountable to the exhibitor as to how and why the final figures where arrived at.

The Castlemaine Wool Show was a National show which meant fleeces came from across Australia including Tasmania.  We were able to arrange this with the local trucking company Thompsons, who brought the fleeces to Castlemaine free of charge, and the support of the local Council, Mount Alexander Shire.  The Shire put any large empty building at our disposal, including the Town Hall in which we ended up having a ram sale in the third year we ran the competition.  Because this competition was run on the objective method it was very popular with the Merino studs across the land, with the Tassie studs often running out winners.

Twenty years ago I thought country shows were on their last legs.  No longer a special event in the country town for which a new outfit was bought for the family outing, somehow the wonderful stalwarts keep things going. Women in the gardening sections and girls riding their horses around the show grounds make up the majority of the agricultural activities, but without the dedicated men (yes, I’m afraid there are still very few women), in the wool sections, there wouldn’t be any shows at all. 

​ 
Godfrey Marple,
​March 2017

On the particular day of work of which I write, I discovered that it is essential for me to have a friend to check out what to wear or which accessories are needed to create a good impression. 

So to this day.  There I stood, the wool classer from the shearing shed ready to address the State Conference of Farmers.  The venue for this conference was the Exhibition Building in Carlton, Melbourne, and I needed to make a good impression.   I had dressed at the Melbourne house we had invested in so I could go to such conferences. Unfortunately my partner, Carole, was not at the Melbourne house this day.

At the time I was employed by the Victorian Farmers and Grazers Association (VFGA) as Manpower Officer, with the primary objective of developing training programs for workers employed in shearing sheds.  The executive felt all employees should have a professional appearance, so it was a suit and tie for me.  After I dressed I took the tram to the Exhibition Building, picked up my name tag and conference papers from the front desk and walked up to the top table.  I was to deliver an outline of my program during the afternoon session.

Then horror struck.  As I sat in my seat, I looked down and saw I had odd shoes which were not exactly the same colour.  I managed to disguise them by putting one foot on top of the other, keeping up this cover till lunch time.  With no other way to redemption, I rushed out, catching a tram back to North Fitzroy and home to shoes of the same colour, returning just as lunch finished.

Yes, I managed to deliver my paper in matching shoes.  No one was any the wiser.  

​The moral of the story is check in with a friend, in my case Carole, if they are home, before leaving for an important appointment.


Godfrey Marple
February 2017

Those of us who were fortunate enough to sometimes travel to work by plane will remember the most memorable of these flights.   This was mine.
 
I had been working with some woolgrower clients endeavouring to improve their flock.  We had been keeping our eyes out for some fine wool merino ewes.  The clients had been scanning the rural newspapers Stock and Land, Queensland Country Life and finally found exactly what we had been looking for – 800 Egelabra ewes one and a half years old for account Elders Narromine, the breeder. 
 
What a find.
 
I rang the agent at Dubbo/Narromine (400 kilometres away) and spoke to the Elders Mansfield agent Rob.  Everything appeared to be in place for the four of us to inspect the sheep with a view to purchase.  
 
Due to the distance, Rob suggested that we should go by a small plane.  I had a friend I had taught wool classing years ago, Gavan.  An experienced pilot, Gavan assured us that we would be home by 4 pm in the afternoon. 
 
We set off for Dubbo and were over Finley in New South Wales when there was a huge bang. 
 
Gavan assured me that it was only the side window. 
 
The side window?  Half of the side of the plane appeared to be missing!
 
We travelled along with a gaping hole in the side of the plane.  As we landed at Dubbo there were planes of all types.  An agricultural plane with the side missing did not look out of place among planes used for doing agricultural work.
 
I chased up the Elders Agent so we could ascertain whether the sheep were suitable, only to find that the Engelabras were not to be seen.  In fact, I was told that the property was inundated after recent rain… ‘But, don’t worry mate, there are plenty of sheep to choose from’.   Not the specific ones I wanted!
 
There were no suitable sheep, half the plane was missing and it was coming on to rain – heavy rain at that.  The cloud was very low, so much so that one couldn’t see the ground. 
 
We managed to take-off and headed for home.  We experienced another frightening wind gust, only to find the map we were steering the plane had been sucked out of the space that had been the window! 
 
We guided the plane home, flying above tree height to keep contact with the ground and watching out for land marks.
 
Yes, we got home.  No sheep, but a day to remember!
 
What a day.
 
 
Godfrey Marple
November 2016

​As part of my job working with Elders I was called upon to keep in contact with graziers who farmed the far western section of New South Wales – Wool Statistical Districts N10 & N11.  These two statistical areas cover a huge area, producing at least 14,000 bales of wool that would be sold through the Elders wool auction system in Melbourne. 
 
My role was to visit these graziers to check that their wool account was well handled, that its proceeds were transferred on time and into the correct account.   Other requirements of the woolgrowers were also catered for such as ram selection and additional sheep classing.
 
All of these tasks required time and organization.
 
My working at Elders coincided with one of the wool booms of the 1990’s in 1995.  There was considerable competition between Wool Brokers so it would be a disaster for a wool company to lose contact with their regular clientele of woolgrowers, even though the Wool Broker may operate some hundreds of hours away.
 
In my role as the Melbourne Wool Manager it was worthwhile making a trip to visit wool growers which I did on a regular basis. 
 
Most of the shearing was conducted during August, so it would be fortuitous to visit one month or six weeks before to keep the woolgrower in touch with market trends.  If it was a busy season at the Wool store, such as during a dry winter, I would need to go as soon as possible. 
 
The best way to travel to outback stations was by plane.   This is where the ‘getting to work on time’ comes in!
 
Having arranged the plane ticket with the administrative department I would ask Carole if she would take me out to Tullamarine by 6 am so I could catch the 6.55 am to Mildura.  It was a fantastic flight – although very noisy, it saved saved me time, taking only one hour, arriving in Mildura at 8 am.  To travel the same distance by car would have taken me six hours!
 
The only negative aspect of the flight was that I needed one of the Elders Staff at either Mildura or Wentworth NSW to drive me from one property to assist woolgrowers to class their sheep and wool. 
 
I would catch the 6.55 pm return flight on Friday afternoon, mission accomplished!   Carole would be there to take me home.
 
 
Godfrey Marple
November 2016
 

When I was around twenty and the shearing season was over I earned a small amount of money bag sewing and hay carting.  This was over and above working at Phillip’s Mill in Albury, New South Wales.  Phillip’s were the leading Oat processing, rolling and grading mill in southern NSW.
 
During the off season for shearing I organised a small team of work mates from Phillip’s Mill to form a ‘Bag Sewing Hay Carting Team’.  They were Roy Grentell, Frank Ledwidge, Carole my life time partner and my-self. 
 
Roy and Frank had permanent work at Phillip’s Mill grading and rolling oats for the South East Asia market.  Frank, who had worked on the Burma railroad as a prisoner of war, was the toughest man I ever met.  Frank reckoned I could do with some toughening up to catch up to him as he had survived the Burma ordeal and proven his ability to work in extreme heat. 
 
Roy and Frank were very good workers and neat at bag sewing.  Carole, whose job was to thread the bag sewing needles to keep up with the bag sewers and to do a spot of driving during the hay season, was a handy helper.
 
We decided that because Roy and Frank were far better at sewing than I was we should split the proceeds three ways – Roy 1/3rd, Frank 1/3rd, Godfrey and Carole 1/3rd.  The pay was reasonably good as there was a standard rate for sewing oat bags at 6 pence per bag and wheat at 8 pence per bag
 
I was a major partner in the deal because I had the car and we couldn’t ‘do’ bag sewing or hay carting without a car to get us out to the farms.  Carole was teaching at Aerial Street, Wodonga and would come out with us at the weekend. 
 
On the weekends in the summer we would leave Albury at sunrise, returning at around 5 pm.  We were very fussy about who we worked for because it was hot, hard work, often passing 100o  Fahrenheit.
 
The bulk handling of grain with the use of augers and other elevator systems gradually superseded the old bag handling systems.  Our bag sewing team stopped doing weekend work.  
Roy, Frank and myself continued working, mainly after normal hours, for another season. Carole drove the hay carter’s truck to finish off the bales while Roy, Frank and I built hay stacks.
 
All this was hard work!  I wonder nowadays how we did it!
 
Godfrey Marple
October 2016

This is a story that has nothing to do with Sheep, Wool or Shearers.

It is a story best categorized as ’interesting people I have met’.

It is 1949, I was just a boy, and wealthy Marple relative, Cliff Cooper, the man who invented Cooper Louver windows, has just posted our family a cheque to cover the costs of return airfares to Sydney. 

Cliff had the inspiration to pay for all the Australian Marple relatives  to meet up in Sydney with the view of ‘getting together’.  

​Our family knew of Cliff, but had not previously had contact with him.

So off we set to Essendon Airport bright and early one Saturday morning – my father, Edwin Balfour Marple; Marion Joan, my mother; my sister Yvonne and eight year old me.  We caught an Australian Airlines plane, a twin engine D-C-3 made by the McDonnell Douglas Aircraft Company, USA.

The family had great expectations of a fantastic flight and a capital city awaiting us with open arms.  However, what really happened was that we arrived in Sydney in the semi-darkness due to a coal miners’ strike.  Sydney relied on coal fire generated electricity, so street lighting was at a minimum and I remember the main city area having a browny glow.

The next day we arose to see this bustling city of around one million people, our next stop for the day was to meet and greet Cliff Cooper.   We caught a taxi out to Dee Why and found Cliff’s house.  To our surprise his house was without a garden or any other adornments.  I asked my Mother what had happened to the garden – I think my father indicated that Cliff had drunk the proceeds of his invention.

I anticipated, as an eight-year-old, that Cliff would be an effervescent business man in a shiny suit, but on the contrary he was hung over and a little worse for wear!  He lived alone apart from a live in Nurse.  That was also a mystery – the Nurse could have well been a sexual companion.  I was only eight at the time, so I wouldn’t know about that!

We returned to our hotel in Sydney to get ready for our trip to Cliff’s beach house at Ettalong Beach.  The hotel had shared bath rooms.  This was the first shared bathing arrangement I had ever encountered, with people’s shaving gear and stuff I had never seen before – deodorant, mouthwash, scent – it was all too much for me!

Tomorrow came – whacko!  Off to the beach!  I remember my parents’ advice to my sister ‘Don’t talk to strange men’.

Beach houses at Ettalong Beach would make one to two million dollars for even the cheap ones, so Cliff had really hit the jackpot with his invention.  All he had done was to have the glass panels of a sleep out or ventilator converted into equal panels, connecting a housing to a lever mechanism that would open or shut to keep the rain and other stray objects out.  That mechanism* made Cliff absolute millions.  He sold the patents to, I think, Wunderlich and other window manufacturing companies.

​The highlight of the visit to Ettalong Beach was Cliff driving us there in his latest car, a huge blue Nash which could pass anything on the road.  I particularly remember a round knob fitted to its steering wheel so Cliff could hold a beer bottle in one hand and steer.  This brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘drinking and driving’!
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The roads around the Hawkesbury River in the late 1940’s were extremely dangerous with curves and unsealed roads.  My mother travelled to Ettalong with Cliff, but declared that she would not drive home with him due to his erratic driving - she did not want to die in the car with her son (that’s me, Godfrey)!
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*'Cliff Cooper's louvre mechanism'... still being sold today...

Having worked as a Station Hand on a Sheep/wheat property at Culcairn in New South Wales under the Federal Pastoral Award system of conditions and payment I thought, as my nineteenth birthday was coming up, I should look into my current terms of employment.

I asked my employer if I could have a look at a copy of the current award and conditions.  Hours of work were a forty four hour week, 7.30 am to  5.30 pm Monday to Friday plus four hours on Saturday morning, a total of a 44-hour week.  Payment was £8 per week minus £4 for food & lodgings (I lived in a sectioned part of the veranda), less tax of £1, a total of £4 take home pay.

I asked if I could be paid the Award for a 19-year old which was an increase in money.  “Sure I’ll pay you under the award” he said.  Little did I know that I had to provide my own bedding, ie. blankets, sheets, towels, for up to this moment my employer had been paying me under the award and “lending me the blankets”.

On arriving at my sectioned off part of the verandah that night I couldn’t help but see the blankets had been confiscated – obviously stored away in the homestead.  I asked for the blankets and was told I would have to arrange to phone my father in Melbourne to ask if he would send up a set of blankets, sheets, towels etc on the next available goods train.  In those days this took some time. 

My birth date is in late April, so I had to sleep in my work clothes from mid to late April.  April in Culcairn is one of the coldest months in the year, especially when sleeping on a verandah without any bed clothes.

I thought this was about the lowest act my employer could do.  Surely he could have given me some warning that the blanket offer had been withdrawn.

My experience in later years in employing people is to ensure all employees are aware of their rights and responsibilities and do not have to face returning home on a freezing night to a bed without any blankets.
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That is why, wherever I worked, I made sure I was a union member. 
 
Godfrey Marple
September 2016

I have been riding bicycles or tricycles since the day I could stand up.  They are a cheap form of transport, reasonably fast and easy to store when not in use.  In fact, I presently have two road bikes I now ride simply for exercise.  Bikes were, and are still, a great form of transport.
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As a young teenager my father would not assist me in the purchase of a bike for what seemed at the time some obscure reason.  My mother had recently died and I was just 13 at the time, so perhaps the old chap did not wish for his wife and son to die in one year.
​
By saving my pocket money, however, I purchased a ‘Glenroy’ cycle from a bike shop in Glenferrie Road, Malvern.  I had just started Year 10 and all my ‘mates’ had bikes of some description.   Even the girls at school had bikes.  The girl I had a crush on, Carole, had a red bike which she painted every school holidays.

My high school mates were innovative with their bikes.  A group of us struck up a friendship with a blacksmith and with two bike frames and many spare parts made a tandem bike.  1956 was the year of the tandem.  A chap called Brown and his Australian mate won the gold medal for the Tandem event at the Olympic games in Melbourne, so we were right in vogue.  One school holidays my friend Jeff Sutton and I rode the tandem bike from Brighton Cemetery to Queenscliff.  Pedalling 50 to 180 kilometres was no barrier in those days for us young fellows! Later in my life I bought a Tandem bike which our son Luke and I used to ride.  Our biggest trip was to circumnavigate Lake Eildon – some 200 kilometres – under the stewardship of Bicycle Vicoria.

At eighteen I took up a position as Station Hand in Culcairn, New South Wales.  I found I needed a bike to get from one spot to another, especially when I enrolled in the Sheep Husbandry and Wool Classing Course at St Paul’s School, Walla Walla.  The Sheep and Wool Course, as it was known, started at 10 am and concluded at 3 pm – the late morning start and early finish designed to accommodate those of us who milked cows.  

St Paul’s College at Walla Walla is located 18 miles west of Culcairn, and my employers’ farm 5 miles east of Culcairn, a total round trip of 46 miles.   I needed to contact my father who lived in Melbourne to ask if he would send up my ‘Glenroy’ bike.  He did as I wished and the Glenroy arrived the following week.   Some days a friendly farmer would pick me up, but mostly I had to ride the 46 miles. 

Over time I saved up and bought a Peugeot motor scooter.  They were hard to get parts for, so it spent most of the time in a disused hay shed.

There came a time when my employer informed me that he would have to terminate my employment due to the return of his son, who had been working on the King Ranch property in Central Queensland.  So work on the property was ending for me.  I needed to pack up my belongings and get them forwarded to a boarding house in Albury.

My employer offered to drive these chattels to Albury, including my Glenroy bike, on the understanding that he would sell the bike and deliver the Peugeot motor scooter to the motor bike mechanic on Laverton Road.

On the property was an old shed which was used for storage of furniture, old beds, etc.   For some unexplained reason I looked in this shed after my employer returned from Albury a day or two later, only to find the Glenroy bike.  He informed me that he could not sell the bike as it was in bad condition.  To my knowledge the bike was in good condition, however I thought it was not worth an argument over an old bike.
 
So, as far as I know, my old ‘Glenroy’ bike could still be there. 


​
Godfrey Marple,
August/September 2016

The best advice I ever had was to stay away from the livestock carrying business.

The livestock carrying business appealed to me as a young person.   It was at the height of livestock trading, which was going on from one end of the country to the other.  It was nothing to ship 400 wethers from Dubbo to Benalla overnight and return the next day with a fresh load of dairy cattle for central Victoria.

These were heady days when everything was running according to plan.  The business had the added appeal of being part of the historic folklore of drovers from byegone days.   Payment was always on time provided a Registered Agent was used.

So on the surface of the proposition everything looked guaranteed.  Clients that paid on time through a registered agent, continuous work in all seasons and suitable saleyards, loading ramps to transact business.

My advisor, Brian, having worked in the livestock/shipping industry for some years, outlined the shortcomings.

The romance of the industry as I saw it was the service and rewards of the industry, but some of my personal experiences helped confirm his comments and warnings.

One downside of the operation was that clientele expected or demanded that the livestock be loaded, including emptying out, in the shortest possible time.

Another downside was experienced in the 1980’s during my time working as a Sheep Exporter for the Kuwait Shipping and Trading Company.  The length of fleece wool on merino sheep being exported had to be less than 75 mm.  Sheep which exceeded the 75 mm had to be be drafted off, shorn and included in the shipping order of the day.

Shearing sheds  and sheep yards could also be a problem.   During the time I was employed by the Kuwait Shipping and Training Company also a member of the Victorian Wool Producing Training Committee.  In this position I had access to thousands of sheep which I used to train shearers at Seven Creeks Run Euroa.  Mind you, I did not do any of the Shearer Training, but I took the opportunity to train Shed Hands and Wool Handlers.  Seven Creeks Run at that time took the form of a six stand shearing shed.

Our Farm Apprenticeship Group based at Technical School had built a portable set of circular sheep yards.   These sheep yards, awarded First Prize for the Most Innovative Sheep Handling Equipment at the Royal Melbourne Show, worked quite well, although one of the Livestock Carriers thought they should have been relocated. 

Dogs have not entered into the equation so far.  Some dogs are good, but some dogs aren’t suited for the Trucking Business. The livestock carrier who doesn't pick the right dog is in strife for some time.

Cleaning out the truck is an unenviable task, especially in the spring when there is a fresh pick of cape weed.

Loading sheep into a livestock carrier in wet weather has to be experienced to be believed.  So the negatives were adding up. 

Other hazards of the job were that in heavy rain the carriers may get cut off.

So now when I see those big prime movers with four decks I am pleased I took Brian’s advice and left the trucks and the livestock carrying business to others more able to cope with the mentioned hazards!  

My family was always faking it.  In fact, they behaved like a modern day Cathy McGowan or a Mascotte Brown of the early 1950’s.  People who claim to be independent when they are really of a conservative bent.

I was brought up in a ‘caring family’ that encouraged me to ‘be a good boy’, whatever that was?  My mother had told me that I had done a good job whatever task I had taken on, such as getting my homework done on time; putting out the bins on a Thursday night; making sure the garden and surrounds were neat and tidy and bringing in the bins after the rubbish truck had been on Friday morning.  It was all done to put on an appearance of a home maker with a perfect family in a perfect suburban home. 

Time went on and I kept up the routine chores and lawn mowing but, all in all, my contributions to the workings of the family seem now to have been based on the pretext of looking good and putting on a show.   Yet both my parents had to work.  They never owned their own home but sent both their children to private schools and moved in circles that were far above our financial and social status.
 
I guess you could say that suburban families are faking it all the time, that the whole of suburbia is a fake – lawns mown, hedges trimmed, roses dead headed.  Residences go into debt to ‘keep up appearances’—to buy equipment such as whipper snippers to discipline the lawn, paths and walkways.
 
When we were young my father needed to change over his car because my sister made it unbearable about being seen in a Morris Oxford.
 
The Morris was a gravity fed petrol engine, so could not be parked facing up a hill.  The crank mechanism was a crank handle arrangement, similar to the stationary engines I happily took to ‘like a duck to water’ later in life in shearing sheds
. 
But not so my sister, who needed a mode of transport befitting her perceived status.  If and when we went out at night my sister would see that the Morris was parked out of range of a street light or other piece of kluminary equipment such as a brightly lit shop front, all because girls from my sister’s school didn’t have family cars with a crank handle.  In other words it was obsolete, it was all about looks.  If you didn’t have the latest you were obsolete also.  The image was shattered.

My mother struck up a relationship with Ms Mascotte-Brown who stood for Federal Parliament for the seat of Higgins as an independent Liberal, similar to Ms Cathy MacGowan.  My mother helped Ms Brown by staffing polling booths on Election Day.  I guess by now the reader of this piece will see that my mother would need to compromise, or it could be said to fake her position with the friends and neighbours, in an endeavour to match Ms Mascotte-Brown’s financial and social status.  Ms Mascotte Brown’s address after all was two doors from the Stonnington mansion, which was the substitute accommodation for Victoria’s Government House in Victoria’s early days.

I did not subscribe to such faking it as it could not be supported indefinitely.  Sooner or later the whole scene would be revealed.  My parents went along with this façade because it was an image that they liked, irrespective of whether they could sustain it.  Both my parents are deceased and have taken these images to their graves.
 

​Godfrey Marple
June 2016

​I have met many people as I have travelled through life, some of influence, some just passing.  The person with the strongest influence on me would have to be my wife, Carole.  In fact, I would have to say Carole has been my soul mate throughout my life.  I met her as a student at Brighton High School, although I didn’t think at the time that we would have a life together.  After all, Carole was a prefect, which meant that she moved in different circles as school.  I organized football and cricket while Carole mixed with the Principal and teachers.  I guess I was envious of her position and, typical of boys in year nine, more interested in riding bikes down to the beach with my mates.
 
As time passed at school, we boys took more notice of the girls.  There was some pairing off of boys and girls, but Carole was not one to go out with school boys.  Most of us didn’t think we had a chance with a prefect and discuss thrower, so Carole was just ‘one of us’ in the sports teams.  I got to know her family as we progressed to year eleven as her father coached school boy athletes and I was keen on becoming a better runner, so gradually our paths crossed. 
 
Carole’s mother Grace was someone I count as a strong influence in my life.  Carole was very welcoming to me as she was very warm and welcoming to me when I started to take Carole out to the pictures, as you did in those days.
 
Carole’s father was different from any other male I had met till then.  He rode racehorses in track work early in the morning; worked in the state savings Bank during the day, then trained foot runners in the evening.  He was a busy man.
 
When we were about nineteen Carole’s family moved to Benalla and I went to Culcairn to work for a family who were very cost conscious, very mean in caring for their workers.  This taught me the value of awards with their statements on working conditions, as well as the importance of the union movement, in the battle for improvements for workers.  All of this helped me during my working life in the agricultural industry, especially in the running of shearing sheds.
 
Another person of influence met through the union movement was Bob Hawke.  Bob came to speak to the workers at a wool store I was working at long before he was known to the political world.  I thought at the time, “This bloke knows how to put it together”.
 
Other influences in my early life were a number of football coaches I met.  The two who stand out were country football coaches Lenny Templar and Jeff McCubbery.  Lenny was a great one for running and never looking tired, so walking around with hands on tips was out.  Jeff was the coach who trained us to never give up.  Our crowning glory was a grand final win.
 
Later in life I met a number of Prime Ministers and Treasurers, but none had the same influence on me as the people I have mentioned here. 
 
Godfrey Marple, June 2016

The greatest impact in my learning years occurred on the day I realized there were specialist teachers. Up until year eight I had only experienced single teacher tuition, with one teacher per class room, at a private school. 

The private school also used the scrap or the cane as a disciplinary measure.  The headmaster at one school, whose name was Marsden and who insisted that he be known as ‘Headmaster’, had a range of canes to suit the ‘crime’.  These canes were displayed on a ‘gun rack’ type exhibition above the fire place in his office as a reminder of what was to come.  Interestingly, early Australian European history has an Englishman by the same name who also had a problem with discipline. Reverend Samuel Marsden was well known for his execution of public floggings carried out on convicts, indigenous Australians, wayward early settlers and any other person who did not fit the Marsden mould.
 
When I was a boy, corporal punishment was still the norm in many homes as well as many schools.  Many a belting was handed out in my home to me, the boy in particular, to the extent that on several occasions I ran away from home only to ring my parents to negotiate my return, so long as I was not going to be hit with the electric cord.

It was a great relief to me on shifting to a Government school to find there were no demeaning or physical punishment practices.  This school, Brighton High School, had been built as a showplace for the future, with the war babies and baby boomers now reaching high school age.  Most of the teachers were idealists. 

​Graeme Wilson was the first of the outstanding teachers I met at Brighton High School.  One of the specialist teachers I spoke about at the start of this essay, Graeme specialized in Geography.  He left us in doubt that there was a reason for everything geographically.  I still remember how to read the weather map and how to calculate the wind’s speed according to the Beaufort Scale.  I remember the day he brought the Earth globe into class to show how the wind travels faster at the horse* latitudes.   Another specialist teacher was Eric Meehan, who left a prestigious position at Melbourne High School to try to teach us limited students the joys of English literature. 

All this helped make me the teacher I became.  Although sadistic tendencies still prevailed in many profession, including education, in my twelve years of teaching I do not recall having a cross word with the staff or the students. 

I would presume that all the conflict I had been brought up in meant that I would not follow that example.  My experiences and role models at Brighton High School left me open to teaching studies and enabled me to better negotiate my way through the maze of life and to come out at the other end a different person to my early school teachers and parents.

Godfrey Marple
May 2016
​ 

​I have been to many ANZAC Day services but the most memorable was ANZAC Day, Lake Taupo, New Zealand in 1977.
 
I was there as an ANZAC Fellow representing Australia.  I organised my participation in the march with the local President of the Returned Serviceman’s organisation.
 
Although the 24th of April had been a balmy day at Lake Taupo, the dawn service the next morning turned out to be the coldest I have ever experienced, despite my wool suit.
 
ANZAC Fellowships are awarded to people in Australia and New Zealand who display exceptional prowess in their field of work who, by visiting each other’s country, expand their knowledge and share his knowledge within their profession when they return to their home country.
 
Standing in my shoes, instead of some wool lined work boots, trying to concentrate on the service, I was shivering like an autumn leaf about to fall when I realised this must have been how those young soldiers felt in the trenches of Gallipoli.
 
Fellowship, which is a sharing of aims or interests, should be encouraged by both countries throughout their communities as the sharing of information is a binding and lasting experience.  There are very few ANZAC fellowships awarded each year.  In fact there was only one awarded in Australia the year I applied, mine being for Agricultural Education. 
 
I found in my working life that the ANZAC Fellowship exposed me to a range of subjects and tasks that I might not have had the opportunity to develop working on my own. This experience, it appeared to me, was similar to the experience of the ANZAC soldiers all those years ago when facing their adversaries. 

​This fellowship also carries the potential to extend goodwill amongst the troops and their leaders in better satisfaction of the ‘job at hand’.
 
In my case, when I returned to Australia I wrote a report for the Committee and further developed the Farm Apprenticeship course at Benalla Technical School.
 
While I have always thought the many and varied ANZAC services were to commemorate the fallen soldiers in battles to protect Australia and therefore us, I find many of the present commemorations very jingoistic in nature and no longer go to ANZAC services.  I do, however, plant red poppies in our garden to give a fine display during November for Remembrance Day.
 
As far as I know, Anzac Fellowships are no longer given by Australia or New Zealand, which is a shame as it was a strong way of continuing that bond of fellowships between our two countries. 

This is a story which concerns my mother-in-law, Grace; my wife, Carole; myself and a mob of 300 sheep.

Grace, Carole and I used to graze sheep on our family farm at Goomalibee.  We conducted this small enterprise by each contributing an equal amount of labour, veterinary charges, shearing, crutching, dipping, haymaking, wool pressing, woolclassing, wool brokering, and so on.

The 300 sheep produced 10 bales, or approximately 2,000 kilos, of wool.  This 19 micron wool would realize about $10.00 per kilo – a total of $2,000, or about $600, each.

The wool was sold over a period of a few weeks during which, by remembering to time time my ‘run’ right with the wool sale schedule, the wool made the $10.00 per kilo, or thereabouts.

I divided the proceeds with my two partners, which all went well.

In 1988 73 year old Grace, who was born in the year of the ANZACs, 1915, did a stint in the Benalla hospital.  When I went to see her in hospital she had her farm book-keeping books with her.  I thought she was pretty smart to remember the book-keeping books, even being in hospital.

All went well – I banked Grace’s money for her and I banked Carole and my share.

A few weeks later I ran into Grace as I was going about my jobs on the farm.  She had an envelope in her hand, which she handed to me.

Enclosed in the envelope was a cheque for $1,200.  I asked her why there was so much money in the envelope and she replied that I had been a good son-in-law and should be a recipient of some of the work I had completed.

Having established that I was to accept Grace’s cheque, we then discussed what I might spend it on.  Grace suggested that I might buy myself an Italian pure wool suit.

During the course of the following month Carole and I found ‘the very thing’ in David Jones, Melbourne.  It was a blue single breasted suit tailored by Facis of Italy.
 
The suit, purchased in 1988 at a cost of $1000, still fits me.
 
I have had many ‘wears’ out of this wonderful suit, made out of similar wool to that of the 300 merino wethers we started with. 

Over 27 years I have worn the suit to weddings, funerals, conferences, receptions and many other public gatherings.

The worst outing for the suit was our daughter’s wedding in a park at Pensacola Beach, Florida, in the rain and wind marking the start of the hurricane season.  The suit was saturated, but fortunately came up ‘as new’ by the time of the reception.

Every time I take this suit out of the wardrobe I think of Grace, my wonderful mother in law, who was not only supportive but knew the value of wool. 

​Having worked in the same industry all my life it is easy to highlight ‘The Year that Made Me’. 
1977 was the year I was awarded an Anzac Fellowship to study the New Zealand system of Agricultural Education.

Australia had no formal structure for educating Farmers, Pastoralists and Farm Workers in the manual skills of farming until 1975.

Victoria had a Shearer training scheme as did New South Wales and South Australia.  These three states also had a very good Wool Classer tuition scheme.  There were other localized training systems including ‘Keeping Farm Accounts’, ‘Dairying Practices’, ‘Pig Raising’ and ‘Bee Keeping’.  Industries such as Merck, Sharp and Dohne occasionally sponsored tuition afternoons and the Australian Wool Board/Australian Wool Corporation held discussion days.  These were all very good educationally but were not endorsed by Education Department Technical School syllabus committees. 

Benalla, being a rural town, had developed a course that incorporated all of the above activities and drawn upon curriculum from the Wangaratta Technical School.

Agricultural Colleges such as Dookie, Longrenong and Marcus Oldham in Victoria; Hawkesbury in New South Wales and Roseworthy in South Australia had served their states well.  Tertiary Institutions around Australia were also making a huge contribution to Agricultural Education such as at Melbourne, Latrobe and Pastoral Industries in New South Wales.

Working at the time for Benalla Technical School/Dookie Agricultural College as a Sheep and Woolclassing Teacher, I was asked by the Principal of Benalla Technical School if I would act as Coordinator of the newly developed Farm Apprenticeship scheme recently introduced there. 
My family and I had recently moved to Benalla to be near my wife’s parents who were farmers in the district.  I negotiated with Carole’s parents for the Technical School to graze some sheep on their property at a nominal rate – and so the Bentec Dorset Sheep Stud was born.

Having been offered the job of Farm Apprenticeship Coordinator I subscribed to a periodical called ‘The New Zealand Farmer’ and any other magazines to see what the rest of the world was doing in this field.

One day, while searching through these publications, I found an application form for an Anzac Fellowship.

Anzac Fellowships are rather rare – they are awarded each year to persons who show exceptional prowess in their field of study.  Mine was of course Post Secondary Agricultural Education.
I put the proposal to the Anzac Fellowship selection panel that what Australia needed in regards to Agricultural Education was to visit similar education providers New Zealand to obtain an overall picture of the New Zealand scene and implement accordingly.   I asked for four months to tour New Zealand with my wife Carole and two adorable children, Luke and Marion. 

Sir Thomas Ramsay, who awarded the Fellowship on behalf of the Australian and New Zealand Governments, wrote back to say he would authorize a six month visit. I later submitted a Report to Sir Thomas on my findings.

Three years later a job was created funded by the Federal Government called the Manpower Development Officer, Victorian Wool Industry Training Committee (VWPITC). 

I held that position for a few years during which the VWPITC Committee and I developed the Regional Shearer Training Scheme; rewrote the Woolclassing Syllabus; assisted in the introduction of Self Paced Learning and assisted with Shed Hand Trainer Schemes.

So – 1977 is now ‘on the record’ as the year that made me, the year that acted as a catalyst for my ever increasing contribution to the Sheep and Woolclassing industry in Victoria, an industry I have thoroughly enjoyed being involved with. 

(‘Off the record’… my wife has said she has heard this story so many times she is sick of it!  …Such is life!)

 
“Godfrey”, said my wife Carol, “Do you remember we were talking about the Australian Electoral Commission changing the electoral boundaries in North Eastern Victoria, including Benalla and many smaller towns near here.    Apparently there has been total confusion at Post Offices up and down the Hume Highway.”  

“I must say I’m a bit worried about Santa’s Pixies”, I replied. “Apparently the boundaries are still in doubt and the Pixies are totally confused.  Usually a fortnight before Christmas they begin checking the names and addresses of children so their presents are delivered to the correct address. I’ve heard they’ve had to start early and double check them this year.”  
 
We were sitting around the kitchen table with our grandchildren and with this story my little grandson’s eyes opened even wider than usual.  

‘Grandpa, do you really believe in Pixies?  Do you really believe in Santa Claus’?  

My little grandson looked rather troubled.  His mother told me he’d been hearing things from the bigger boys at school.
 
“That’s a good question!  It is all a bit confusing.   

When I was little, Pixies and Fairies were regarded as ‘fictitious beings’, which means that they may exist or may not.  As I grew up I began to notice they were often held responsible for all sorts of coincidences and acts of goodwill.  

Pixies were often blamed for the breaking of incidental items around the house such as a misplaced screw or a blown light bulb.  Sometimes they were congratulated when a cup of tea just happened to appear when needed or a kettle boiled just before a visitor arrived.  At other times Pixies worked together to do extra good deeds. 
 
Fairies were responsible for acts of goodwill, such as when the Tooth Fairy left a $2 coin in the special glass left out when I lost a tooth.

Pixies and Santa Claus?  Pixies are particularly well known for assisting Santa Claus at Christmas time. They toil for weeks before Christmas to make it a success.
 
I remember some Pixies telling me once that the most difficult item to place on the roof is the special hay for Santa’s reindeer.  The reindeer were very excited at the thought of clamboring up the side trellises to get to the hay when they arrived at our house.
 
I could never fathom out how Santa could pull up the reindeer and tether them to our front fence without them ripping palings off the bearers to get to the roof to get the hay.  I became particularly worried one year after my father told me the reindeers had wrecked the front fence trying to get to the hay.  Christmas was coming and he had not bolted the fence back together again!  How would they manage?

Another activity Santa's Pixies take part in at Christmas time is supplying refreshments for Santa and his reindeer.  Santa is of course always very thirsty after travelling all night to deliver presents to children who often live on farms a long way from one another.  It was traditional at our house to supply quite copious amounts of beer to slake his thirst.    Come the morning in the cold light of dawn – even in summer – there was always a sizeable mess to clean up.  Santa and his helpers had obviously had a good time!  (Apparently the Pixies were somewhat to blame as it seems they had sat up most of the night telling stories to the reindeer!)”

I could see my grandson looking at me really thoughtfully, still looking rather uncertain…

“I guess I like to think it’s all a bit of a mystery… and a bit of fun.   Believing in Santa and his helpers helps to create a happy atmosphere for families at Christmas time.  I know it did at my house”.
 
“And mine”, said Carol. 

“Don’t worry”, I comforted him… “I’m sure the Pixies will manage to sort out the confusion caused by the changing electoral boundaries and that all the children in Indi will receive their Christmas presents on time—including you!”  
​
“Long live the Pixies!  Long live Santa Claus!”

When I was asked to write a piece using the words 'For Better For Worse' it brought back memories of my time spent as a choir boy at St John's, Toorak.

I found myself looking up the vows section of the Anglican marriage service on the internet. I quote:

“In the presence of God I take thee Name to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live…”

These vows would be well known to the Anglicans in our community and many others.  I found them in 'The Marriage Ceremony: A Step By Step Guide' written by The Venerable Dr. Bradley Billings, current vicar of St John’s Anglican Church in Toorak.

I was a choir boy at St John’s for four years from 1952 to 1955 and was the Head Choirboy in 1954/55. During these years I was paid to sing.  This money was granted on the understanding that it went towards my school fees.  I attended Christ Church Grammar, the Anglican Church, situated an the west end of Toorak Road. 

It was quite a commitment for a young boy to sing as a paid choirboy as it involved attending choir practice on Thursday evenings; attending two church services each Sunday (11 am & then Evensong at 7 pm) and on Saturdays a wedding or two. Scholarship holders also had to sing a solo occasionally to prove that we were worth our money. 

The Choir Master, Mr. Welsford Smithers*, was at that time the Chair of Music and Melbourne University.  To my young ears he could almost make the organ talk.  Throughout the year he would undertake to perform a piece to reinforce the season of the church calendar – at Christmas this might be Handel’s Messiah, at Easter ‘Stainer’s Crucifixion’.  All great stuff!

Then on Saturdays the choir would often be called on to sing at a wedding, or perhaps two.  Choir boys were paid six shillings per wedding, in cash, in addition to the Scholarship money. 

During the signing of the Register by the Bride and Groom we would sing a hymn; a Mozart piece; Handel's 'Entrance of the Queen of Sheba', or a piece by Purcell. 

Little did I know in those days how important the wedding vows are and how binding they can be.

Although the Choir took up quite a bit of my time each week, it was enjoyable and the music was just fantastic.  However after four years, my voice broke and I was no longer required in the front row of the Choir stalls.  My father was not happy.

I have other memories of my time as a choir boy at St John’s.  One which stands out is of St John’s most notable parishioner, Mr G J Coles, the Head of Vestry, driving his Rolls Royce to church on Sundays and parking it on the church grounds.
.  
I also played cricket for St. John’s in the South Suburban Churches Cricket Association. We had made the finals and were on top of the world.  My mother unfortunately died that week. I don’t think my father wanted me to play in respect to her death, but I managed to seek his approval and to hit the winning runs – a four off a square cut!

___________________________________

*An article from the Examiner (Launceston, 21 November 1936, concerning Welsford Smithers...

This is the continuation of the previous story, 'Cringe', regarding the game of cricket and having weathered a series of short deliveries which I found impossible to score off.

As the Captain, I felt obligated to play at each ball and attempt to anchor the non-strikers end, leaving it to Ian Toogood push the run rate along.

Given that I now know a duck was looming I found the task difficult.

This was also a difficult situation for the balance of the team as they were seeing the most reliable of our batting line up getting pummelled and bruised at the hands of this intimidatory bowling.

The easy way out was to “throw” my wicket away, leaving it to another of my team mates to try to swing the game our way.  How was this to be done?  I could not see an answer.

The answer was blatantly obvious.  I needed to get the bit between my teeth and attempt to defend my wicket as there was no sign of a high score.

Ian and I batted on for the best part of the afternoon, only to be trapped in front of the stumps and a confident cry of “Howzat!”

The appeal was of course an LBW.

The umpire for the day deliberated on his decision, long and hard, to make up his mind.  By that time in the afternoon my left shin bone was starting to throb after the bruising bowling I’d endured. 

I had to hold my ground courageously, though it was only a cricket match.

I was hoping that the Umpire would give me out as I could then walk off the ground with courage and dignity, not just give my wicket away and walk off the ground.

The Umpire eventually gave me out and I was secretly relieved.
 
--------------------
I had experienced this situation a previous week, not realizing what a battering I had taken as the opening batsman.
 
In those days it was quite common for school teachers to wear shorts to work.  This particular Monday I was wearing shorts.  I could not work out why people were looking at my legs, just above the knee, as I walked down the school corridor.

Then it dawned on me!  It was the bruising from another short delivery episode.
 

Godfrey Marple,
October 2015  

‘Cringe’ is not a word in my every day language, so ideas as to its usage do not come readily. 

In order to open up the conversation, I needed to have a clear definition of the meaning of the word.  The Australian Pocket Dictionary defines the word ‘cringe’ as, to flinch in fear, or to behave in a submissive way.

Fear or submission recalls an experience when playing cricket.

Several years ago I played cricket for Molyullah.  Only Section Three cricket – nevertheless, the intensity of the competition was just as fierce. My task was to open the batting.  We were not oversupplied with talent and as I was the captain I had to make a brave and determined start in the batting order.

Molyullah’s opponent for this particular round of the cricket fixture was St Joseph’s Cricket Club. 

St Joseph’s had the distinct advantage of being able to field two sides in the competition – a Section One side and a Section Three side.  This meant that if St Joseph’s had more players than required for the Section One side the surplus would spill over into the Section Three side, boosting the standard of their lesser side.

The venue for the game was the old High School ground in Witt Street, Benalla.  With fine, sunny weather conditions everything was set for a good performance. 

The St Joseph’s Section Three cricket team was captained by Rod Potter.   I had worked with Rod for a number of years and helped him build the Elders Pastoral livestock business in the Benalla district.  Perhaps because of this friendship I had incorrectly gauged the situation in regards to the spirit of the match.

St Joseph’s cricket team selectors had two spare bowlers for this game, so they must have thought that Molyullah were no pushover.

My run rate for the current series wasn’t anything to rave about, but my batting partner, Ian Toogood, had played cricket in Melbourne.  Ian was the local schoolteacher in Molyullah and could make 100 runs on most weekends.

My job for the afternoon was to make sure I wasn’t dismissed early in our innings while Ian piled on the runs at the other end.  We had completed this task several times during the year and thought all we had to do was to turn up, make sure we were not dismissed early and keep the pressure on the St. Joseph’s bowlers. 

Before the game started I noticed Rod Potter talking to one of his team.  They appeared to be discussing the pitch, with Rod pointing to a section of the pitch about half-way down.   This team member turned out to be the opening bowler.  What Potter was instructing him to do was to bowl short of a length so that the ball would rear up about head high.

This bowler was clearly sent out to play in this game with the intention of intimidating the Molyullah batting line up!

I spent the first over trying to dodge and weave to get out of the road and avoid being hit on the head. 
I made a duck that day – the first for the season.

So I could claim that I was guilty of cringeing from intimidatory bowling. 
____________________________
 
(Or, as group member David suggested, from ‘Body line’ bowling!)
 
 
Godfrey Marple, October 2015

I was working as a 19 year old Station Hand for a property east of Culcairn in New South Wales and realised, if I was to have any mobility at all, I needed some form of transport.  This was something that I could not easily acquire without much if any money.  The Pastoral Award Station Hand rate was Eight Pounds Thirty Shillings for a 44 hour week less Five Pounds found rate.  So there wasn't much chance of saving up for the purchase.

The best I could do was to ring up my father, who was living in Melbourne, to ask him if he would put my bicycle on the "Daylight Express" and I would pick it up from the Culcairn Station.  A few weeks later 'Glenroy' (the bike was called) had been dropped off at Culcairn.

After the bike arrived I enrolled in the first year of Stage 1 Woolclassing/Sheep Husbandry at St. Paul's Lutheran College, Walla Walla; some forty kilometres the round trip, 25 kilometres of gravel and the rest bitumen of sorts. On my way to Walla Walla, Hedley Schoff, a wool course student would pick me up, put the 'Glenroy' in the back of his utility and we would be in Walla Walla before we knew it.

I had made the trip 25 times and had started to think there must be some better form of travel. So I looked about for a mortor scooter.  I found one of these, a Peugeot, at a Lavington motor cycle shop.  It was a great machine but the gear change cable, which is difficult to repair with fencing wire, kept breaking.  So I reverted back to the bike.

While working at Culcairn I had been keeping in touch with the love of my life, Carole, who was working for her family at the Benalla Newsagency.  We used to write to each other regularly and on very special occasions the station owner might let me use the phone to contact her.  We met three times a year - the first for Easter; the second to attend the Royal Agricultural Show and the third was the end of year break for the end of the Woolclassing school year.  On one special occasion I had access to a public phone without 'eavesdroppers' at the Wodonga Pig Market.  Those were the days when Telephone switchboard operators would cut the phone line dead if you exceeded the three minute allocated time. It was fairly obvious that I needed a car to keep our relationship going! 

The station owner's son returned to the property at the end of the year so my employment was terminated.  I had to relocate to Albury and continue my Woolclassing course at night school.  I gave up on the Peugeot motor scooter due to the cost of repairs.

ENTER THE GREY, TWO DOOR MORRIS MINOR, NSW PLATES BUU*732!


(This reminiscence is set in 1959-early 1960's)

8.00 am to 8.10 am - Wednesday 17th June 2015  

I went to the key rack and realized the key on the little Spaceman key ring was missing. Panic set in!  It was the key to the neighbour’s house and there was a hungry cat called Myrtle waiting to be fed.

Our neighbours Geoff and Wendy often take holidays, either overseas or skiing the Australian Alps.  Over the years a few of their pets have needed care at these times. One memorable pet was Wendy’s sister’s dog, an ageing kelpie which had to be put down because it insisted on biting Wendy after its owner died.  There were usually two caged birds, some variety of canary. 

Recently Geoff asked me if I would look after the current list of pets –  Myrtle the cat and some birds - while he and Wendy took a trip to Far North Queensland.

The travelling arrangements were for Wendy and Geoff to fly to Cairns, take possession of a four wheeled drive and rendezvous with other people of the same age from our town. The touring party included a medical doctor, registered nurse, midwife and a motor mechanic/ steel fabricator and others.  Once the group had familiarized themselves with the tasks ahead they were to set off inland heading for the Carnarvon National Park.   Their ultimate aim, to reach the tip of Cape York.

I did not anticipate seeing them for six weeks. 

Three weeks into Geoff and Wendy’s holiday I had set into a routine of feeding animals, collecting the mail, putting out the red and yellow bins full of rubbish accumulated before they went away and watering specific plants.

Wednesday morning came around.  After I had done the chores I headed over to the key rack to get the key so that I could feed Myrtle.   Catastrophe struck.  To my astonishment the key with the Spaceman key ring was not on its hook! 

The hunt was on!  Thoughts rushed through my head…  

If I cannot find the key in the next three minutes I will have some explaining to do!  Where did I last see it?   Did I do something with it after I fed Myrtle last night?  What was I wearing?

Frantically I checked behind the refrigerator as the key rack is next to the kitchen fridge.

How am I going to feed the hungry Myrtle? What if Myrtle is trapped in Geoff and Wendy’s house and dies for lack of food? What will the smell be like? What will the neighbours think if I can’t look after a cat and a couple of birds? There would be no hope of being asked to do anything in future that carries any responsibility!

My partner arrived back from her early morning walk and asked all of the appropriate questions regarding the key.  She asked what I wore last time I used the key.  I looked in the jacket from the day before but no key.

Then we remembered!  It started to become clear.   On Wednesday it had rained, so I did not wear my normal jacket but a rain coat.  There it was in front of me in the hall cupboard. By  8.10 am I had the Spaceman key ring in my hand.

Ten minutes later Myrtle was fed and I felt greatly relieved!

              

The decision to quit often depends on the rapport  built up with others.  In football this obligation to perform is between the player or employee and the principal, usually the coach. 

Football and the football coaches I came across when playing football have been an important part of my life.  Mr. Frank at my high school was my first coach,  followed by people my own age - Jeffrey, Lennie & Des.

Jeffrey  was an excellent speaker except when we were behind at three quarter time in some crucial game.   His vocabulary could then become a demeaning and offensive tirade of abuse. One of the Macartney brothers decided Jeffrey was such a good speaker that he would “tape” one of his three quarter time speeches to replay to his mother over tea but decided it was too offensive!   Jeffrey, a school teacher, later became an Education Advisor.

Lennie, an electricity meter reader based in Ballarat, was also a good speaker but had the unhappy knack of belittling out of form players on the off chance they would improve their performance.  I often quote Lennie as he was a great running coach having trained many Stawell Gift winners.  He trained sprinters at the Lake Oval during the summer months, entering his fastest runner in the appropriate Gift meetings.  During this period Lennie would build up a rapport with the sprinters he trained to the point where they would not think of quitting.

I was not all that keen on playing football in the late 1980’s.   I had been successful at coaching a school football team and was looking forward to quietly fading into the dark as far as football was concerned.   However Des, a fellow employee, coached Wallan football team which was short of suitable players.  Des ‘bailed’ me up and asked me to play for Wallan.  I felt I couldn’t say no as doing so would affect our relationship.

The last game I played, the one that convinced me that this would be my last, was brought on by appalling weather conditions at Wallan.  The ground faced south and was exposed to the oncoming weather. 

I can remember vividly thinking, “Why put up with these conditions Saturday after Saturday when I could be at home with my wonderful wife Carole - who was always encouraging me with sporting pursuits - and our two delightful children, Luke and Marion?”   

I can still remember the moment when it struck me, staring down at the sodden ground ‘on the wing’, to ask “Why am I here?”

It wasn’t the fact that we were unsuccessful as a team.  We had won the premiership the previous year in a hard fought battle against Sebastopol.

The writing was on the wall to my inner self however as I told myself I QUIT!

Quitting or resigning is a newsworthy occurrence in today’s football where many “good” options are available.   Lance Franklin from the Sydney Swans must have filtered these options when deciding to leave Hawthorn (reigning Premiers) to take the $9,000,000 offered by Sydney over a ten year period.

Mine was just that cold wind and sodden ground.