I’ve not been one to buck the system or challenge authority, but during the 1980’s farming was in the doldrums. Expenses were increasing, especially fuel, income decreasing due to low wool prices, as well as sheep and lamb prices, and drought. There was trouble in the meat industry, with unions picketing meat works and causing closures and layoffs of workers.  It was a worrying time as two of our children, nearing the end of secondary school, had dreams of going to university and having careers in medicine and allied health. There were a lot of expenses ahead.

The government of the day was talking of introducing capital gains tax and a consumption tax.  Interest rates were high, 17% was common.  Some farmers were paying up to 25%, so there was discontent with their treatment by the government.  Farmers in some other countries were subsidised--we didn’t want that, but we needed a fair go. After, all didn’t the farmers provide the meat, milk, fruit and vegetables for the nation and export, as well as wool, cotton and wheat.

The Victorian Farmers Federation organised a march in Melbourne on June 27th 1985--a march from  Flinders Street, up Swanston Street, through the city to the steps of Parliament House.  The day arrived.  Farmers and their families from all over Victoria converged on Melbourne, some with trucks and tractors, in their farm clothes, and carrying banners, showing their discontent. Some of these banners were very witty and clever, others very angry and rather rude.

We marched off together.  There was a feeling of strong solidarity. This raggle-taggle community of farmers were united as they marched up the centre of the road.  It was a good feeling.  As we held up trams and traffic, perhaps city people would have some idea how dependent they were on farmers!  In fact, Melbourne cheered us good naturedly and asked why we were marching. We felt we had made our presence felt.

On July 1, a march was organised for Canberra. This was an angrier crowd.  Over 40,000 farmers and their families roared their approval of NFF Pres. Ian McLauchlan’s warning to the government and demands for change in the next budget. Many of them were carrying placards showing their discontent.  Again, farmers were working together for their common cause!

​What did this achieve? Perhaps a little at the time, but we now have a GST and capital gains tax and probably other taxes in the future to cover the countries’ debt.  Do the city people, as they eat their meat and three veg, think of where that food came from, and at what cost?  I wonder!
 
Margaret Nelson
June 2022

​In 1965, a rumour began to circulate among the senior students of my boys high school, that a repeating final year student, older than the rest of us, had been required to register for National Service and, on completion of 5th Year, could be ‘called up’ to serve two years in the Australian Army.
 
The National Service Act was passed in November 1964, by the Liberal/National government. The Act required that every six months, 20-year-old males  register for national service with the possibility, that, if their birth date was drawn out in the ballot, they would be required to serve in the army for a period of twenty-four months of continuous service, followed by three years in the Army Reserve.
 
Controversially, conscripts, for the first time in Australia’s history, could also be sent to fight with the Australian troops in Vietnam against the Vietcong and the North Vietnamese army.

Then eighteen- to twenty-year old, did not have the right to vote, but they could be sent overseas to fight. Eighteen- to twenty-years old did not get the right to vote until 1973.
 
It was then, that I first became aware of possible personal implications of the National Service Act and its direct link Australia’s participation in the Vietnam War. 
 
Although interesting, the prospect of personally being conscripted was largely irrelevant, as I had already committed myself to attending university, and knew that I would be exempt while I was studying.
 
When it was time for me to register in 1968, when I had turned 20, I was emotionally and intellectually torn.
 
I had developed a belief that the war in Vietnam was a continuation of the Vietnamese people’s fight for independence. I also believed that the introduction of conscription was a means for the government to prop up an increasingly unpopular war.
 
I came to believe that it was wrong Australians were fighting against the Vietnamese. Thus, I concluded that the National Service Act itself, was an immoral law.
 
In registering, I knew that I could probably gain exemption on conscientious grounds and in fact, as I was training to be a Methodist minister at the time, I would have been automatically exempt.
 
After much consideration, discussion among friends, and prayer, I decided in all conscious, that when I turned twenty, I would not register for national service.
 
I visited the Department of Labour and National Service and advised them to that effect.
 
I realised that in doing so, I would be

• automatically registered,
• not included in the ballot, and
• my name would be added to the list of those conscripted.
• I would have no opportunity to apply for exemption.

 
I could not have imagined then, how my life might unfold, following on from my decision.  
 
 
Graham Jensen
June 2022

Election day.  May 21, 2022  I make my way from Benalla to the Tatong Polling Booth, driving at the maximum speed limit as I’m running slightly late.  Turn left at Tiger Hill Road, nearly there.  The Liberals and Nationals, marquee erected, corflutes facing the road, take up one side of the entrance to the Tatong Hall, while Helen Haines’ Voices for Indi volunteers are setting up on the other side.

Responding to a request by a Labor friend, I find myself once again volunteering, handing out ‘how to vote cards’ for Labor.  Unpacking the basket of handouts and the corflute ‘Nadia David 1 for Indi’, I balance them on the walker I plan to sit on during the day and head towards the space next to Helen Haines’ orange themed stall.  Janet, Tim and David greet me warmly, making room for me.

A marquee is soon being set up beside me.  People from the community arrive, setting up a ‘democracy sausage’ sizzle, a fundraiser for new flagpoles to be erected outside the hall.

Voters arrive in clusters, often in farm utes, the latter typically greeting the National and Liberal Party volunteers by name and chatting about the price of beef, wool or milk.

Younger voters, almost without exception, wave us all away, their voting intentions already researched and stored on their smart phones.

My sister and her husband, who farm on Tiger Hill, arrive to vote, ‘We wondered if you’d be here today’. There’s time to catch up on family news. 

By early afternoon most people have voted and many 'democracy sausages' consumed.  I walk over to the National and Liberal party tables, welcomed by volunteers I’ve chatted to at election days over the years.  There is warmth in the conversation, though with the odd political prickle here and there for me to mull over later in the day.

With no one available to replace me, my friend had said, “stay as long as you can manage, and then leave the ‘how to vote’ fliers somewhere accessible”.

However as always, I stay until it is time for the scrutineers to arrive, keen for Tatong to have the full democratic menu on display. ​

​After all, preferences count too!    ​

​Bev Lee
​June 2022     


Post script 2: The second photo was taken standing near Tim's improvised fire place at Tatong on a cold day in July, 2016!

​“I walk down the street and nobody notices me. They think I’m a tourist. It’s as though I’m invisible.” We were having a cup of coffee at the baker’s with Fumiko. She had lived in Tallangatta for four years and was married to the son of a local plumber.

That was so sad and surely something could be done about it. I talked it over with Lou, the Neighbourhood House co-ordinator, and so the Multi-cultural Program was born.

The plan was for a monthly two-hour cooking class followed by lunch and a talk with a different country featuring each month. Our initial program included Italy, Japan, the Philippines, Bali, Russia, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, France and China. As we outlined the course, much interest was shown. “But where are these people coming from?” we were asked. No one could believe it when we said, “Every one of these leaders lives in Tallangatta.”
​
The cooking class, including lunch, was $25. Lou talked over the proposed menu with the leader and went off with a list of ingredients to buy. Other than the free use of the room and adjoining kitchen, the course paid for itself.

The limited number of places were snapped up. The leader showed how to prepare the chosen dishes and the class went to work, slicing and dicing, stirring ʹand straining. Everyone was absolutely enjoying themselves and the leader was beaming.

Carmyl Winkler
​June 2022