Adding the Music Appreciation notes to the U3A website recently I noticed the class had listened to Prokofiev’s  'Prokofiev - Peter and the Wolf'.  I promised myself I would listen to the link inserted into Bill's report.

Reading the title ‘Peter and the Wolf’ triggered warm memories of a school excursion, of going to the Melbourne Town Hall to listen to a concert to introduce school children to classical music.  It’s rather blurry, but I suspect it was in 1960, I was in the first year of high school (not quite yet a teen), and that we had caught the train from Caulfield Station to Flinders Street Station, walking up Swanston Street to the stately Melbourne Town Hall. 

I had never been to a classical music concert before.  I had developed a love of dancing to classical music at ballet classes, and treasure memories of mother sitting me alongside her  on the piano seat at my grandmother’s and playing for Fur Elise for me when I was little.  We loved selecting pianola rolls from the little rosewood cabinet at our grandparents’ house where we enthusiastically pumped the piano pedals, though the piano rolls were largely popular music of the 1930's.  We had an old, hand wound gramophone at home. I don’t remember classical records featuring, though some jazz records did.  We didn’t listen to the classical radio music on the ABC – right at the end of the dial, I would shudder hearing operatic music on the staticky radios of the time.  My parents could not afford music lessons for us, and at the time state schools didn’t have instrumental music classes.  I grew up in the post war years, which were financially difficult years for many ex-service families such as ours. 

I still vividly remember the conductor introducing the characters, the bird represented by the flute, the  the duck by the oboe, the cat by the clarinet, the grandfather by the bassoon, the wolf by three  French horns, Peter by the strings of the orchestra, the rifle shots by the timpani and the big base drum.  As the story developed, I began to be transported into another world.  I'm still transported there when I listen to this recording found on YouTube...

The sun had already risen above the tree line by the time my Pa returned from the milking shed. I always knew when he was home because suddenly, the house would come to life. Pa would have already kicked off his gumboots and made his way to the bathroom long before I saw him. I knew he was home though, because there was a pail of fresh milk in the kitchen, waiting for Nana to skim off the cream.

Suddenly, the large country dining table was crowded with my two young Uncles, Nana, me, my cousins and my Pa. Sometimes other men would be there, men that worked around the farm or men that had come for Pa’s advice, but mostly it was just my family, Pa, Nana, the uncles and me. On this day, conversation flew all around me as I quietly waited just in case any of the adults wanted to address me. Often they didn’t and when this happened I imagined I was truly invisible. This was not a bad feeling, I had learned early that invisible children couldn’t be beaten. Although I was safe in this house that feeling of wanting to be invisible never left me.

Sometimes though, the conversation would include me.
“Micky-Lizzy what will you do today?”, my Pa asked me.
I shrugged and shook my head.
“Well now I’m going into town today and you will come with me.”
Startled I realised that he and I were going on an adventure without Nana. I looked at her for confirmation of this unusual arrangement and she smiled and nodded. I couldn’t remember the last time Pa had driven the ‘good’ car out to town, it was Nana who did the driving. Pa drove tractors or an old ute, not the ‘good’ car.

Breakfast finished, I cleaned my teeth and put on my shoes, taking care to check that the soles of each one were clean lest I mess up Nana’s floors. I picked up my small purse and slipped it into my pocket. The coins within the purse were a source of great pride. At 7 years old I was a “saver”. My sister was not a “saver”. It seemed to me that whenever we went somewhere together she would demand I pay. This was the case when we visited the zoo, wanting to ride the miniature train I had my fare of 20c but alas Louise did not. Without hesitation, I paid her fare too, but I did wonder if it was entirely equitable.

Arriving in town, Pa had grown up business to conduct and I silently followed him into the Stock and Station Agent and then to the bank. Each time I contented myself with being invisible. When we had finished Pa looked down at me and announced that we were going into the stationery shop, where I could buy gifts for my brother and sister since they weren’t lucky enough to be on holiday like me. Pa had an amazing superpower to read my mind, I thought as I felt the purse in my pocket.  

Inside the stationery shop, there was a small selection of gifts and I carefully selected one for Louise and one for Paul. I took my time on each selection trying to find the ideal gift. On one shelf was a china Piggy Bank. It was pink, with a flower painted on the side. It reminded me of a book I had at home all about a Piggy Bank that sat on a shelf feeling invisible and useless. Eventually, the Piggy Bank discovered its true purpose when the child that owned it turned it upside down and cheerfully removed the coins he had been saving. Gazing at the Piggy Bank I wished I had more money so that I could buy it for myself.  

Instead, I cheerfully passed over my coins to the shop assistant and completed my purchase. Behind me, Pa reached over and put that pretty china Piggy Bank on the shop counter. My eyes were wide with amazement as I watched the shop assistant carefully wrap the precious pig in tissue paper and place it into a paper bag. Pa completed his purchase before reaching down and looking me in the eye.

“You're a good girl Micky Lizzy, using all your money on presents for your brother and sister. This is for you - I think you know what it is for”, he said before ruffling my hair and taking my hand in his.

As we crossed the busy road to the car, I thought to myself how lucky I was to have my Pa and how glad I was that I wasn’t invisible to him.


Michelle Aitken
June 2021

​My earliest memories are of our house in Lalor. My father and his older brother were the nominated builders on the Peter Lalor Co-operative Housing Project when this house was built. My parents lived in a small cottage in Station Street, Thomastown when they were first married in May 1944. I was born in June 1948.
 
The home in Lalor was at 18 Vasey Avenue and was completed in October 1950. It was a triple fronted brick veneer home with two bedrooms and one bathroom. The rooms were of an ample size and the most unusual feature of the house was that the laundry faced the front street. This is not clear in this image of the house taken in 1950. There was town water connected, however the electricity was not connected until 1952. I do remember the ice man coming to fill the ice chest in the early days. There was an automated telephone connected, however the only phone box was at the Railway Station and was a 600 yard, or 560 mt. walk uphill along an unmade road. The road and drainage system was not installed until 1960, at which time my parents had moved to Wollert. The ‘night cart’ was eventually replaced with a sewerage system in 1973, 26 years after the project commenced.
 
Below is a current image of the house taken in 2018.

​The layout of the buildings has not changed, however the shed has been rebuilt and is now a garage. The fenced section at the rear of the yard was the fowl and duck run with a number of fruit trees.

Who remembers being warned about the Boogeyman as a child?
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In the 1950’s our family travelled to Ireland to live and remained there for more than three years.  While there, my parents rented part of a castle.  We inhabited the top quarter which did include a round tower.  Another family lived in the lower quarter, while the main half was inhabited by the owner and his housekeeper, Bridie.

The castle was part of a working farm on the outskirts of a village.  There was a long drive which ran between fields and curved up a hill to the castle.

One day, while we were outside playing, we saw a man appear round the curve.  He was very tall and wore a black greatcoat, cap and large boots and to our eyes was the embodiment of “The Boogeyman”.  He was known locally as Galway Jack.  To return inside we would have to get to the door before him.  The housekeeper, Bridie, had noticed him and quickly opened her kitchen window and dragged us inside.  She warned us that he did not like children and that we should avoid him.

Looking back, as an adult, I can imagine that the poor man had been teased by children and thus had no love for them, but I doubt he would have hurt us.  Being children, we did not enquire into his story.  As he only appeared in the village from time to time, I think he spent his life on the road.  Now I have many questions about him which, unfortunately, will remain unanswered.  I wonder where he slept and how he found shelter and food.  I imagine he came from Galway because of his name.

This memory returns from time to time.  I eventually rang one of my brothers last week and asked him if he remembered Galway Jack.  Before I could say anything else, he laughed and said he was dragged through the window by Bridie to escape from him.  Thus, my memory is true and not a figment of my imagination.

My one regret is that I will never know his story.
​
 
Marg Macrohan
June 2021

One of my first childhood memories is running from the police.

At Deniliquin, the Edward River is in flood! Breaking its banks the swirling flood water fills the gullies and billabongs that surround the river. The water swirls madly around the large river red gums that grow in its path. Seemingly in a delight at its escape from the river, it eddies and swirls. This creates frothy bubbles that fascinate a toddler who has also escaped with her older sister to observe the flood. It’s my first sweet taste of adventure.

There are lots of boys swimming in the flood water having a wonderful time. We stand on a bridge surrounded by flood water to watch them and peering down through the steel slats I can see the flood water flowing swiftly past. Half an upright egg shell floats by, fancy that, an egg shell boat!  My reverie is disturbed by a shout,

“The police are coming, run!”

There’s a mad scramble out of the water as a police car approaches very slowly down the track. My sister Maureen shouts “Run” and is dragging me off the bridge. We dash through water and up the path. She yells at me, “You’re a nuisance; you don’t run fast enough, you nearly got us caught!”

My parents came to Australia in the spirit of adventure to make their fortune. Instead of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow they found the dust and drought of the Riverina.

We live in the town, in Harfleur St in a house known as the old golf house. When it’s hot Mother is homesick for England and it always seems to be hot. Heat waves seem to be the ‘norm.’ The only relief we have from the heat is to spend the day at the park under the shade of the trees.  We straggle tiredly home in the evenings.

​Banks of dust laden cloud roll in on the horizon and the sky is dark red. The smell of red dust alerts us and we run to the house. Mother calls “Come in children, there’s going to be a dust storm!” We race inside and help her place towels against the cracks of doors and windows, but the atmosphere is still choking with the dust that filters through. It’s dark inside; you can see and hear nothing except red dust pounding against the window panes. When it’s all over the dust must be swept from the house.

Dad has been approached by Stock and Station agent Harry Tuck who is owed money by some of the local squatocracy. His proposal is for Dad to grow crops on their land on a share farmer basis, so they can pay their bills. Always a super optimist Dad works hard anticipating success but is thwarted by drought time and time again.

When there are spare parts being flown in for the tractors we go out to the aerodrome to wait for “the Wingull” the sweetest tiny blue plane. It’s exciting when it lands and taxies down the runway and we go out to meet it. Sometimes I’m allowed to stand on the wing!

We left Deniliquin at the beginning of World War 2 when my father joined the Army. I was three years old.

It was over sixty years before I returned. I stepped out of the car in the Main St and
instantly there was the smell of Deniliquin, and the quality of the sunshine and the
dryness of the atmosphere that I remembered so well. I felt that I was home again!

Bev Morton

One of the constant truisms of living in the country in the 50’s was that you knew everybody. This was good and bad. You could come into some unexpected criticism from your mother for being seen outside a shop with some undesirable character. Somebody she knew – usually a relative – had seen you. Everyone seemed to know everyone. The country had come through a long depression and a long war and everyone wanted peace and for things to be settled. People tended to stay in the area they were born in. Everyone had lots of relatives. And you had some relatives who were relatives by marriage. Meaning they were not blood related but had somehow married into your extended family somewhere in the past.

Such a couple were my Uncle Doogie and Aunt Janet. I could never understand just where we were related but they were childless and took an interest in me. I did not complain. Aunt Janet was a generous person who I knew treated me with affection and Uncle Doogie treated me as a mate. In fact he often called me his mate. But this was mostly when we were alone. In public he referred to me as his Cobber.

One of my earliest memories are of me sasying “Are we Cobbers”. He must have started asking me this when I was quite young.

He was the only person I knew who used this phrase. He had been in the First World War and had apparently picked up the saying in the trenches.

Uncle Doogie liked to go fishing. He had a three hook licence. But he liked to cheat a bit and would attache another line on a special stick. This had to be a piece of dead stick from a dead tree or a dead branch on a live tree. Its colour was always grey. It had be a medium sized stick. My task was to get these sticks. I would climb trees and break the dead sticks off the branches. He would pick the best one and give the second best to me to use as my rod. He would put his in a camouflaged spot in the bank with line attached and give me the second dead stick with a small line attached for me to fish with. His dead stick would always stay in the river overnight.

Once I was with him when he was telling a friend that he had just bought a new rod and was describing its virtues when a thought struck me. I interrupted and asked if I could have his old one. He looked at me and said

“Are we Cobbers”.

For some reason this took me aback. I didn't know what to say. I said yes but I didn’t get his old rod.

Aunt Janet was a member of lots of groups. She was Secretary of the Church Committee. She was in the CWA. She was in the RSL Auxiliary. She ran the Masonic Auxiliary. She kept an immaculate house. She liked having people to visit her and stay. She had lots of people from Melbourne visit her. I liked visiting her when she had people staying. I could always observe and overhear interesting things. She knew lots of important local people. She was friends with the wives of many prominent people in Wangaratta. She liked to take me to cultural things. Libraries. Concerts. Houses - where she would talk to other grownup women. I did not complain. I liked snooping in others houses. I made sure I had a good look at everything when she was talking.

She had a certain status in society. People respected her. Her good opinion was important.

My father once let a poor family use a hall that he was in charge of to have their daughters wedding reception/ breakfast. The wedding was a genuine shotgun affair where it was on record the two families involved had spent one full weekend together deciding which brother would marry the very pregnant girl. I was there because my father had to oversee the proceedings to ensure that the hall was kept intact. Amongst the guests there was a lot of smirking behind hands and a lot of nudge nudge wink wink talk. I didn't quite understand what the joke was but I could see it generated a lot of talk about the girl. Even at my young age I felt shame and sorrow for her.

Towards the end the proceedings telegrams were read out. These all contained messages of silly humour and innuendo. Then unexpectedly a telegram was read out from my Aunt Janet. It was addressed to the girl directly and it complimented her on her marriage. It wished her well for the future. My Aunt said she could only envy the girl on the journey she was embarking on. She said she was happy for her and looked forward to what achievements the girl would have in the future. My Aunt said that she would be contacting her and having her call for tea when the girl returned from her honeymoon. She did not use the word bride but mentioned the girl by name.

This somehow changed the whole atmosphere of the situation. Suddenly the girls reputation was enhanced. It was saying the girl should be taken seriously. It did not matter that it was shotgun wedding and a dodgy one at that. Silly humour was suddenly irrelevant. The girl deserved respect. My Aunt was giving it to her. She was telling the people smirking behind their hands they should have felt ashamed. Suddenly I could see they did. Everyone knew Aunt Janet.

My Uncle Doogie was in WW1. He pronounced Ypres as Wipers. It was said, however, that he enhanced his war records. He did have a reputation as a skite. After all he never shut up about his exploits in WW2 where he organised the local Home Guard. And we had all heard that he had taken part in the celebrations over the lifting of the Siege of Mafeking.

Or so we thought we knew it all.

In an electronic age where records cannot be covered up - long after someones death - complete details are available for anyone to see if you know where to look. Such are Uncle Doogies. You can even look up the records of the hospital where he was treated prior to his being invalided home. They are very specific. He was first shot in the arm near the elbow. He was patched up and sent back into the line. He was then shot in the head. He was repatriated to England where he spent some time in hospital recovering. When he recovered he was sent back to the front line where he was shot at close quarters in the leg above the knee. The wound was fairly severe and he was repatriated home to Australia just before the Armistice.

He never mentioned any of this. This was new to me.

But records being records they can include some unedifying details. Buried towards the end there is one page devoted to the treatment he received for a sexually transmitted disease. I wont say what but it is rumoured that several leading politicians have had the same affliction.

This could have contributed to my Aunt and Uncle having no children. I just don't know.

70 years after these exploits this completed my childhood memory.

Neville Gibb
​June 2021

An early memory I have is of learning to ride a bike when I was about 5 or 6.  It was pretty quiet on our farm, however new neighbours had moved in next door. They had a daughter, about 5 years older than me, who sometimes rode her bike over to our place of a weekend. How I envied her! When she suggested teaching me how to ride I jumped at the chance.          
                                              
Bev had a 26”, fixed wheel boy’s bike, not the ideal machine for a rather small 5 year-old to learn on.  Mounting the bike presented a problem. Using the fence to stabilise the bike, I could climb on, then pedal like mad to get it going.  Learning balance took time, but my friend Bev steadied the bike till I got going. She had endless patience and energy for running along beside me. There were plenty of wobbles and falls. Even with the seat at its lowest, my short legs had trouble reaching the pedals and I managed by slipping from side to side.   
                                                                                                                         
Stopping was another problem to overcome. No free wheel to ease to a stop! My feet barely reached the pedals, so they were inches off the ground.  The fence was my anchor.  I would cruise past slowly as close as I could and grab a wire. I made one bad mistake grabbing a barbed wire, but only once. I eventually got the hang of it after losing some skin and collecting a lot of bruises.                                                                                                                                                                                         
For Christmas that year I received a 24” green Malvern Star girls’ bike. Being a proper girls’ bike, it was easier to get on and off and it was a free wheeler. I cycled up and down our long driveway and out into the paddocks. I was free!       
                                                                                                                     
The school days I spent in town, staying with my grandparents, went more quickly now I could ride around Violet Town, which, in those days, was a quiet, safe place. I could visit my other grandparents or play with my friends after school. Even in the school holidays I could sometimes ride into town on gravel roads that were very quiet.  I always gathered speed to cross the bridges after hearing that “swaggies” sometimes camped under them. Probably the most frightening experience I had was coming across a large brown snake in the middle of the road. Too late to stop, I had to swerve around it, being careful not to run over it. I had heard tales of people running over snakes and suddenly finding the snake wrapped around them!   
                                                                                           
Another humorous memory is of Grandma King‘s attempt to learn to ride. One evening, when she was minding Allan and I while Mum was in the hospital with our new little brother, she decided that, as the coast was clear, she would try to achieve what her little granddaughter was doing so effortlessly.  Sadly, she found it harder than it looked!  It always amazes me that it is a skill which, once learnt, seems to stay with us forever.


Margaret Nelson
June 2021

My childhood was short-lived, and so I will compound my memories into one.

I recall that I was a four-year old child and that my mother was in the St. Arnaud hospital dying of cancer.  Her sister, Molly Walsh, with whom I was temporarily staying, took me to the hospital to pay a visit.  January 1937.  On Mum’s bedside was a jar of black and white humbug lollies.  As an exploring four-year old, I could not keep my eyes off them and made it obvious.  Mum noticed, and whether it was in exasperation or not, said “alright!  You can have one”.  A poignant memory, but the only memory I have of my mother!  She died on the 31st day of that same month. 
​
On Mum’s death there was a shuffling of my siblings to the care of relatives.  My six-year old brother, Basil, and I, remained at home with my older brother Pat (16 years old) and my father.
Dad was out in the paddocks and had the responsibility of giving Basil and me a bath. There was no water connected to the bathroom and Pat had boiled water in the copper in the wash house, way out the back.  He poured the hot water into the bath, then, telling Baz and me to ‘stand clear’, went to the outside tank to get some cold water.  Baz ignored his advice and, saying “watch this”, leant over the bath to show off.  To my horror he fell into the steaming water and scalded himself severely.  He carried the scars for the rest of his life.  Pat has been haunted by the memory.

Dad’s sisters then came to the fore and both Basil and I were housed with Aunty Mary until other arrangements could be made.  With the aid of another sister, Elizabeth (Mother Augustine of the Sisters of Mercy in Ballarat), it was decided that we both should attend Villa Maria, the nuns’ primary boarding school for young boys, in Ballarat East.  This was a realistic decision.  But Basil and I didn’t appreciate the move.  We, and in particular Basil, found the nuns not to be loving people; caring perhaps, but not loving.  Sisters of Mercy, what crap!

I believe that the aunts, in taking us away from Dad’s care, had placed us among, in today’s terms, the realms of the “Stolen Generation”.

There were, undeniably, some good days at Villa, but I am sure that both of us really hated most of the time we spent there.

After seven and a half years at Villa I was able to win a scholarship which provided me with four years accommodation and secondary education at St. Patrick’s College, also in Ballarat.

In my long lifetime, I have never been able to find the right words to describe the emptiness of a life without a mother.  Having finished my education at St. Pat’s, it remained for me to fill the subsequent void, and I quote… “…whatever will be, will be, the future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera!”

However, I feel that I accomplished much and have coped ably.

My childhood, now, is nothing but a memory.

 
Ray O’Shannessy
27 May 2021

My early childhood, that is after I started remembering incidents, was made up of various pets, “Miaow” my cat, “Danny” and “Brownie”, the two sheep dogs that my Grandfather Tom had, “Creamy” my horse and an assortment of Bantams, Ducks and Chooks in general.
​
One of my earliest memories was the chook yard, where I had a favourite bantam rooster, which I called “Chookum”.  I never really found out what became of “Chookum”, but I fear he may have found the cooking pot in our kitchen.   My verbal announcement of the disappearance was forecast to all in sundry, with the words, “who tookum my Chookum?”.  This fell on deaf ears.   Apparently after it was realized that the son and heir’s favourite feathered friend wasn’t in the chook yard, the matter was considered better left alone and not discussed.   I sure did miss “Chookum”, for he was the only member of the chook yard I could hand feed.

Two of the first members of the canine race that entered my life were, “Danny” and Brownie”, sheep dogs by breed and training, the first a champion Border Collie and the other a rather nondescript Kelpie.  The dogs disliked each other with a vengeance and could be easily enticed to have a scrap, by just throwing gravel at them both.  Of course, they both thought that each had induced the situation and didn’t realize that one little boy had perpetrated the whole affair.

There was always much excitement when a visit was made to the “Rabbiting Packs” kennels; for in the late nineteen forties and fifties, rabbits had begun to overrun the whole countryside, so as to enforce the “Rabbit Act”, station owners were required to employ “Rabbiters”, who armed with a pack of rabbiting dogs, shovels, traps and poisons would set out daily to pursue and destroy the erstwhile bunny.  My Grandfather Tom employed a rather laconic Australian, who went by the name of “Bantam Jim”.  I never knew his surname, but I used to follow Jim, sticking to his trail as limpets stick to a rock, for I always knew that there would be some excitement happening during the day some time.  Jim was the fellow that taught me songs and one of the earlier ones was a little ditty that went thus, “Cigarettes and Whisky and wild, wild women, they’ll drive you crazy, they’ll drive you insane”.  Of course, my Grandmother Ruth would run around telling me not to sing those terrible songs and have my Grandfather say something to Jim, who’d not be very happy. Since Jim was a good mate, I did not want him to get into trouble with the boss, so of course, I complied.  As the Rabbiting Pack was made up of both dogs and bitches, there was always plenty of fighting and squabbling amongst the pack, especially when a bitch was “in season” and all of the dogs were trying to “mate” with her.  Of course, the inevitable would happen, two would be “knotted”, so much delight would be had by a little boy throwing buckets of water over them both.   I don’t really know what result was achieved by this, except that both the dogs and a little boy were thoroughly wet to the skin.

My first venture into high finance reared its head during this period in my life, for I had learned how to trap rabbits, skin them, then string the skins onto a bow of eight-gauge wire.  Dried skins fetched a shilling a pound and good quality rabbits were sold to the local butcher for seven and six a pair. Another money-making enterprise was to walk around the paddocks with a chaff bag and pluck all the wool of any unfortunate sheep that happened to have put its four feet into the air; wool was worth a few bob in those years’ of the early to mid-fifties.  So, my bank balance grew!!!!!! 
 
David Lowing
June 2021