​I lay in bed, half awake, vaguely debating if I should get up and do some chores in the cool of the morning, or go back to sleep. More sleep certainly appealed to me!

CRASH!   Followed by more clattering.

I was instantly awake.  That noise was most certainly in the house. In fact it sounded like it was in the kitchen. I sprung out of bed and raced out to the kitchen.

​No, it wasn’t an intruder. 

​From beneath the pantry door was oozing a sticky, gingery smelling foaming liquid. The penny dropped, it was my homemade brew of ginger beer. A bottle had exploded, setting off a chain reaction breaking several more bottles on the shelf, and knocking them 0nto the floor. What a mess! Broken glass and sticky liquid.

I had made a batch of old fashioned ginger beer, starting with a “plant”. The plant consisted of water, lemon juice, ginger and sugar, kept in a covered jar and fed daily with sugar and ginger, till the end of a week. By this time it was getting bubbly. To this was added water, more sugar and lemon juice, strained and bottled. After about a week bubbles could be seen rising up the bottle and the brew was ready to drink. Quite innocent ingredients but they became explosive!

I remember Mum and my grandmother making this drink, which was very refreshing served cold. I'd made this drink a few times with success. Back then there were special ginger beer bottles with a spring top  and rubber stopper, or Marchants soft drink bottles of heavy glass with a plastic and rubber stopper were excellent. However, with continual brewing the liquid got stronger and the beer more volatile. One opened them very cautiously, careful not to shake the bottle, or a stream of beer could hit the ceiling or walls or windows. Opening them outside was the best option.

In the post-war years it was a simple pleasure we enjoyed,  Soft drink was expensive, “soda stream” hadn't been invented, and our other alternative was home-made cordial from lemons and oranges.

Yes, I must make some this summer.  This memory has inspired me.


Margaret Nelson
September 2021

​I had reached retirement age. My career life was a thing of the past and our business had been sold. Not having much to do after a busy life, was dismal. What could I do that would be
interesting, and new? Extra money would be nice too.  
 
One of my sons managed a turf farm. I could do that kind of work, drive tractors, mowers,
whatever. No problem, I’ll ask. “Can I have a job on the turf farm? About three days a
week would suit me.”
 
I got a job. Starting off, I was told to hose the thick layers of mud from under machinery with a high-pressure hose. Damp and dirty work. What else could I do?  Fill the tractors, mowers, and turf cutting machines with diesel, making sure to record the specific machine, it’s milage, hours, and the quantities of fuel in the logbook. The Government auditors didn’t take kindly to discrepancies. It was child’s play, but adult male workers often had difficulty with this chore.
 
I was the only female, and an old one at that, working on the farm. The workmen were courteous to me, but of course I was the manager’s mother. I’m sure they watched their Ps and Q’s when I was near. Whatever they personally felt, I never had the slightest problem, except they always monopolised the best tractors.
 
Moving irrigation equipment was a constant assignment. They started me on the galvanised pipes, which were scorching hot in the Queensland sun, too hot to handle. Where did I leave my work gloves? Oh yes! They are back in the shed. Why didn’t I think to take them with me? I progressed to setting up the travelling irrigators but was never given access to the central pivot systems.
 
Next, I was given the oldest tractor on the farm with the spraying equipment attached. But first I had to do a course in chemical handling before being allowed to spray weeds.  Then the instruction “Make sure you spray around all the water valves. Snakes love to hang out in those places, making it dangerous for anyone connecting hoses.”
 
I learned to operate the huge green John Deer tractor with 32 gears, but I seldom got to use it. The male workers always commandeered the best equipment. I had no forklift training but one day I tried to use it. I saw pallets stacked high and just for the experience I decided to move them. I lowered the lifting forks and moved forward intending to push the prongs into the spaces on the lowest pallet but missed. CRASH, they all came tumbling down.  I sheepishly told the boss what I had done.
 
Then I was given a promotion to what I would love doing. I was allowed to mow the precious resource – the grass. After being shown how to operate the big mower and told not to scalp the turf, I began doing a job I loved. It was uplifting and peaceful being out alone in a paddock, smelling the new mown grass, seeing pelicans on the dam, and watching the blue, red or brown dragonflies dashing back and forth. Then one day I mowed over the nest of a pair of plovers.  I was looking back to ensure the grass I was cutting was the required height and didn’t see the nest. As I came round on my next circuit, I saw the two plovers looking forlornly at their smashed eggs. My heart went out to those two birds. I felt so guilty. It still bothers me.
 
From that time forward I was very vigilant when mowing. On another occasion I saw a plovers’ nest with eggs and carefully avoided it, only to discover the eggs were gone the next day, probably taken by a fox.
 
Mankind can be careless and nature can be cruel.
 
Elizabeth Kearns
August 2021

​The air was balmy, with windows wound down on that February’s summer evening, darkness all around, as the three of us drove through the dust along the dirt Monimail road.  We could see, through the gloom, the tail lights of the utility travelling ahead of us, then briefly they disappeared as that sharp bend sharply came into vision and the old Holden ute slew sideways into the deep table drain, carved out over years of constant grading by the Windouran Shire’s old Cat grader.
​
The first impact was just like a sledgehammer had smashed into the passenger’s side of the ute, for it had slid side on into the deep shoulder of the built-up table drain. For a moment we just sat there, like stunned plovers, before Pete, who was driving, croaked out, “Are you both OK?”

We’d been drinking since early afternoon at the Pretty Pine Hotel, after spending the morning duck shooting at Balpool Station along the road to Moulamein, so I guess we were pretty sloshed at the time. “Duck”, (we all called John by his nickname, how he ever got stuck with that one I don’t know, but his brother Pete, said it came from their grandfather, who said, as a youngster, John just waddled like a duck), took the full blunt of the impact.  He was complaining that he’d broken his shoulder, which on X-ray proved to be true.  When we inspected the door the next day, there was a huge bend along the top of the window frame, where Duck’s shoulder had been impacted into it.  

Pete sat there, mumbling, “I just didn’t see that corner”.  I guess he wasn’t really to blame as it was a rather sharp” ninety degreer” in the dust and he’d only driven along that road on the way out this morning, for they both came from their farm on the Mornington Peninsula.

Luckily, the older blokes in the leading ute saw that our lights weren’t following, so decided to turn back, only to find us in this rather embarring situation. Fortunately, the vehicle was still drivable, so a chain was produced and in no time, we were dragged out.  Was it a lesson? Who knows, for it didn’t stop Pete driving at reckless speeds!

I haven’t seen Pete for ages, but the subject matter for this month caused me to remember “Duck” and Pete again.
 
David Lowing
August 2021

Whilst living in Sydney I became involved with motor sport. As a member of the Southern Sporting Car Club, I developed a four door MK2 Ford Escort into a fairly competitive circuit car.
​
In March 1998 I was accepted as a member of the club team to compete in a super sprint event at Amaroo. Amaroo was a very picturesque circuit located in the suburb of Annangrove. This was to be one of the last events at Amaroo, as it was scheduled to close in August that year to make way for a housing development.

Super sprints in club motorsport are time trials, and are run against the clock with only two cars on the circuit at the same time. My nemesis was Alistair Browne from the Alpha Romeo club who always seemed to produce a better lap time than myself. On this particular day I was determined to better my existing lap time and take the points from Alistair for the first time. The car had been tuned and was running perfectly, and with the first lap I was able to reduce my pervious lap time of 72 seconds, down to 66 seconds. However there were further improvements to be made. During the day, subsequent runs continually reduced the lap times down to almost 60 seconds.

For the last sprint of the day, I was lined up with Alistair Browne. I was determined to beat him and break the 1 minute barrier. After getting a blinding start, I led into the first corner. The third corner was a sweeping bend called Dunlop Loop, this is where the wheels fell off, literally!! After exiting the sweeper, an axle broke and the right rear wheel decided to leave the scene without permission, and took off into the bush. In the process of departing, the wheel managed to unbalance the car rather abruptly. I was desperately trying to regain control, however the car failed to respond at this critical point in the proceedings.

It is said that when a person is under severe stress, their life flashes before their eyes. This did not happen to me. What was flashing before my eyes, were the trees on the outside of the circuit, with the added complication that they were upside down.  I do recall saying to myself in a millisecond, “This may not end well”. One also tends to become very religious in these circumstances.

During the bumps, thumps and the bangs, I managed to turn off the ignition and firmly grasp the steering wheel to avoid my arms being thrown around inside, or outside, the vehicle. When the noise stopped, the car was on the grassy infield facing in the correct direction of travel, and upright. I do recall the flag marshal running up behind the car, speaking on the radio, “I think he’s dead”. To which I replied, “I am not dead, please help me out of the car”, or words to that effect. I emerged from the wreck unscathed, with only bruising to my shoulders from the racing harness.

A quick inspection of the car revealed that during the airborne activities, the other rear wheel had also departed.

From Alistair’s description, “When I came around the corner, the Escort was completely inverted, three metres above the track, and sideways to the direction of travel. You were still going that fast that I could not catch you, however when you hit the ground between rolls and flips, I did manage to catch up”.

Degree of difficulty….not rated as the jury is still out on whether the driver problem created the mechanical failure, or the mechanical failure created the driver problem. Artistic merit and presentation, as rated by Alistair Browne,…10/10.

After the compulsory medical check I was released to inspect the remains of the Escort, which had by this time been returned to the pits on a tilt bed truck. One bystander, who obviously had a Degree in Mechanical Engineering, offered his considered opinion, “It’s stuffed”. I could have done without that input at the time, but unfortunately the mighty Escort’s injuries were extensive and proved fatal. In a brief, but moving ceremony, the log book was closed and the Escort deemed gone forever at 19.00 hours on Sunday 29th March 1998.

The remains were transported to my local panel beater who offered a similar response to the trackside expert, only in more colourful language. His assessment was that the car had rolled from side to side, end to end and corner to corner, seven times. The impact was so severe that the axis of the body had been twisted around 5 degrees. The only panel on the car that was not damaged was the passenger side rear door, shown in the image below.

​PS: The surviving mechanicals were salvaged from the wreck and installed in a two door Escort shell. This car then won the club circuit championship a number of times with subsequent owners from the same car club.


Barry O’Connor,
August 2021.

Crash
noun (c) failure
A situation when a computer or system suddenly stops operating.

The occasion of our son Kevin’s 18th birthday took a sudden and frightening turn when he crashed to the floor unconscious. He was paralysed on his left side when he came around.

The party had been a joyous occasion, Kevin was almost the last of his cohort to celebrate the
milestone of turning 18. Additionally the group was looking forward to the end of their school life.
Our house renovations were in the last stages, but the kids didn’t mind the relative chaos of the
house as they gathered.

By midnight I was ready for sleep and left James to ensure that the kids all found somewhere to sleep since many were staying over.

Sometime around 2am James woke me, urgency in his voice as he relayed that they had called an ambulance because Kevin collapsed after doing a headstand. The kids had been playing truth or dare and Kevin had selected the option of a dare, thus doing a headstand. A superb athlete, he was more than able to complete the dare and surprised everyone when he crashed to the floor. One of the kids at the party had his first-aid certificate and he rushed to aid Kevin.

Kevin was prone to exaggerating his injuries and so James wasn’t worried until it became apparent that he was not faking his current symptoms. An ambulance was arriving as I joined the group in the family room.

A rapid assessment by the paramedics had Kevin bundled into a neck brace and rushed off with
lights and sirens to the local Emergency Department. James and one of Kevin’s friends went to the hospital to wait with Kevin while I settled the remaining kids for the night.

By morning it was apparent that Kevin was seriously ill. The headstand had uncovered a neurological condition, Chiari Malformation Type 1.

In the weeks that followed Kevin crashed in and out of consciousness. The pressure of the brain
crushing his central nervous system was life-threatening. On one occasion the ambulance officers asked me if they should resuscitate him should he crash on the way to St Vincents in the city.

The neurosurgeons were amazing and life-saving surgery was performed just weeks after diagnosis. Throughout this time we were constantly aware that his condition could deteriorate. He had severe headaches and would lie down only for us to find him semi-conscious. His eyes would be bloodshot red as the pressure on the spinal cord became acute.

Kevin’s recovery, although very painful at first went well. His neck muscles had been severed and the bones in his spine drilled to accomodate the malformation in the brain. He shows off the scar that runs from the top of his head to the base of his neck. He’s of the impression that girls find scars attractive! When I look at his scar I’m reminded that life is a precious thing.

Michelle Aitken
​August 2021