Sandy Beach has had a mention in a previous memoir as I remember. The complete commercial picture was a small grocery with post office, a baker’s shop and a lolly shop. It certainly didn’t include a pharmacy – or a doctor for that matter.
So when I cut my leg climbing about on the galvanized fence and the cut became infected, my mother had to send for help further afield. Mr. Swain lived over the road and drove his sleek green bus to Launceston and back, about fifty km. each way, every week day. Mother explained the situation and asked him to buy a particular ointment to treat the cut. By the time Mr. Swain had dropped his passengers and arrived at the pharmacy, he’d forgotten the name of the ointment. However, he passed on what had happened and the chemist sold him something he thought would be appropriate.
It turned out that not only did the ointment fail to heal the leg but it started eating into the flesh. Needless to say, that particular treatment came to an abrupt end and an order was put in for the original ointment. Mr. Swain made sure he got it right this time and brought it over as soon as he finished his run. It did indeed heal the leg, but I can still dimly see the scar on my calf eighty years later.
From Sandy Beach, we moved to Ballarat and I was off to Pleasant Street State School. In those days, if students didn’t pass their exams, they were left down to repeat the year. Barbara was fourteen in Grade 6 and much bigger than we eleven-year-olds. She was giving me a piggy-back one playtime and she set me down on a small post supporting the netball goal post. This had a large bolt poking out three or four inches. As I jumped down, this bolt tore a large piece of flesh in my thigh and left it hanging on three sides. Poor Barbara was horrified but, of course, it wasn’t her fault.
The thigh had gone completely numb – possibly some of the nerves were severed – so I couldn’t feel any pain but, as I recall, the office lady fainted at the sight.
Off to Ballarat Hospital to get a multitude of stitches and a piece of sticking plaster about five inches wide to cover the wound. I was off school for six weeks and recommended to stay off my leg.
I had regular check-ups at the hospital and these entailed dragging off the giant sticking plaster each time. It was agony. However, one of the nurses had a wonderful idea. She cut the plaster down the centre, turned back the edges and threaded a lace through cuts in the fold. From then on, it was just a matter of loosening the lace each time a check-up was needed. I loved that nurse!
One time Mother and I went to the hospital in a taxi as the car was unavailable. It cost so much we had to return in the tram and I had to walk the longish block from the tram stop to our place, much to Mother’s concern.
However the wound healed and the scar remained.
Much more interesting than a tattoo!
Carmyl Winkler
April 2024
So when I cut my leg climbing about on the galvanized fence and the cut became infected, my mother had to send for help further afield. Mr. Swain lived over the road and drove his sleek green bus to Launceston and back, about fifty km. each way, every week day. Mother explained the situation and asked him to buy a particular ointment to treat the cut. By the time Mr. Swain had dropped his passengers and arrived at the pharmacy, he’d forgotten the name of the ointment. However, he passed on what had happened and the chemist sold him something he thought would be appropriate.
It turned out that not only did the ointment fail to heal the leg but it started eating into the flesh. Needless to say, that particular treatment came to an abrupt end and an order was put in for the original ointment. Mr. Swain made sure he got it right this time and brought it over as soon as he finished his run. It did indeed heal the leg, but I can still dimly see the scar on my calf eighty years later.
From Sandy Beach, we moved to Ballarat and I was off to Pleasant Street State School. In those days, if students didn’t pass their exams, they were left down to repeat the year. Barbara was fourteen in Grade 6 and much bigger than we eleven-year-olds. She was giving me a piggy-back one playtime and she set me down on a small post supporting the netball goal post. This had a large bolt poking out three or four inches. As I jumped down, this bolt tore a large piece of flesh in my thigh and left it hanging on three sides. Poor Barbara was horrified but, of course, it wasn’t her fault.
The thigh had gone completely numb – possibly some of the nerves were severed – so I couldn’t feel any pain but, as I recall, the office lady fainted at the sight.
Off to Ballarat Hospital to get a multitude of stitches and a piece of sticking plaster about five inches wide to cover the wound. I was off school for six weeks and recommended to stay off my leg.
I had regular check-ups at the hospital and these entailed dragging off the giant sticking plaster each time. It was agony. However, one of the nurses had a wonderful idea. She cut the plaster down the centre, turned back the edges and threaded a lace through cuts in the fold. From then on, it was just a matter of loosening the lace each time a check-up was needed. I loved that nurse!
One time Mother and I went to the hospital in a taxi as the car was unavailable. It cost so much we had to return in the tram and I had to walk the longish block from the tram stop to our place, much to Mother’s concern.
However the wound healed and the scar remained.
Much more interesting than a tattoo!
Carmyl Winkler
April 2024
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