Catch!  Here comes a curve ball.   Oh No!  I don't want that curve ball...

Give me another one.  A nice one day one.   Too late as it splats right into your hand and your heart.  Oh dear (F...) what do I do with this. And the answer is “You Live with it. And work towards solving or diminishing it!”  
 
I received a massive curve ball loads of years ago.   I had been very fatigued and I was doing battle with my old Dr who patted me on the head and said “You are going through a Divorce.  We will get some counselling soon”.   As I walked out of his surgery I thought “Hang on I am sick.    Not just divorced”.    But then Dr knows best.
 
So I went to a tennis mate of mine who was a Dr and he looked at me and said:  “You are really crook!”   We will get to the bottom of this thing.   I was hot footed to a group called the Shepherd Foundation who did a complete diagnosis.   No physical testing just half an hour of questioning and then the diagnosis.   This I received via my mate the Dr. who rang me and said “Don't move you could die!”   (I was lying on the floor in front of the heater as I was so very cold). You have 
low thyroid and you are close to dead.      I have booked you into a Specialist this afternoon.  
 
That afternoon I was informed that I would take two years to recover and I had to have a year off work.    I had a young son and I was a single Mum.   I had just bought a house and had to work.
 
I took  my sick leave which was eighteen weeks.   At the beginning I could not see and I had to sleep most of the day.   Slowly my eyesight came back to normal and I began to get out of bed more.  I began to go to tennis and shopping; just normal living things.   But what no one knew was I came home exhausted and went straight to bed.   Outwardly normal but covering up a severe illness. 
 
Slowly I improved and my sick leave ran out.   I went back to work with six days of leave and a wonderful boss.   I was a Visiting Teacher of the Deaf and he told me to come off the road if I was tired.   He also gave me permission to just sit in the Office if I needed to.   Then he changed my Schools so most of my Schools could be reached easily from Freeways.  Thus reducing the stress of driving through traffic.   That was September I went back and I survived.   The long Holidays arrived and I had six more weeks of holidays to recuperate.   So physically the curve ball had lost.
 
But this next bit was the big one.   I was a dancer and a tennis player.  I had never been “not able” to operate at a high physical level previous to this curve ball which was permanent physical illness.   A debilitating illness which meant I had to monitor my own energy output.   Make sure I did not get overtired.  
 
Cutting down on outside work activities was vital.  So tennis became once a week.   And I avoided late nights as they were exhausting.   This went on for two years but it changed me.   I had been a head down flat out type of person who could do anything.   And all of a sudden I had an autoimmune problem which demanded me modify and watch everything I did.   Playing tennis all day and then partying all night was now impossible. 
 
This Curve Ball changed me greatly.   “Have to” became impossible.  “Need to” became the optimum phrase.   And “How best to organise the need to whereby the system did not get overtired”.   And so I changed into a person who considered everything in my day and selected the “need to do items” and ignored the spontaneous “lets do that person”.   Always monitoring my energy levels.   
 
I have received lots of Curve Balls since this first one.  I treat them all the same.   Slowly let the healing come; manage the meds and don't be in a rush to do impossible tasks.   Avoid stress at all costs.   
 
I saw a wonderful truck yesterday which was being used to travel all over Australia in.  One of those medium sized trucks with a canopy and a bullbar.   Made for the trip up North; all the way to Darwin.  I nearly patted it as it is my dream holiday to do that trip.  Camping with my dogs.   I walked away from that truck and its owner knowing that the spontaneous lady is not gone.   I walked into my home and began to plan that dream trip where I discover the inner Australia and the traditional lands of Australia.   So the Curve Balls did not quite squash all desires.  Another dream which can be fulfilled.  There have been a lot of them too as well as the Curve Balls. 
 
Helen Duggin
24 May 2021

My Dad told me one day that “We have fairies in our Family”.   Wow!  That was a lot for a two and a half year old to absorb.  Fairies, real fairies.  Like in my books that I had read to me most night.   Perhaps like the “Fairy Tree”.    I loved that book.   So, I went into the garden and looked.  
 
Not much to see under the tomatoes; not much to see around the pumpkins.  I think I was looking for Cinderella’s Coach there; but no luck on that one.  The Chook house appealed as a home for fairies.  I went into the chook house and talked to them quite nicely asking them if they had any fairies.  I knew those chooks well as I collected the eggs, very carefully, every morning.   I had a little basket which I filled most days if the girls were in a good mood.   They hadn't seen any fairies.   The dog was useless, not even knowing what I was talking about.  But then it was my brother's dog and so he hadn't mentioned any fairies to the funny fat dog.    It was a failed mission. 
 
I asked my Dad for more details.   He said, there was Eva, and Bianca, and Isabella and Irene.   They even had names.  I marvelled at that.    My next question was “Where can I find them?”  And to this question he answered with a brush off reply.   “They will turn up soon”.  Wow!  And Fantastic!  I could expect a visit from the fairies soon.   I sat and read one of my fairy books so I would know what to look for when they “Turned Up”.
 
Uh ha!   He meant they were in the dirt outside.   They came from under the earth.   Okay I could handle that.   And so off I went to check out the earth.  All around the yard I went.   Looking, looking for those fairies with names.   I even called their names but no reply.  Hmmm. Obviously, they weren’t showing themselves today.   I used my shovel to turn over some earth in the hope that would dislodge them.   No luck again! 
 
By then I was feeling a little tired and so I sat under the nectarine tree and rested.  I could see into the rest of the garden from there and was in a good spot to see them if they appeared.
I half nodded off to sleep and then it happened.   I saw them, walking between the beans and tomatoes.  All in a line.  All the fairies I had read about - leprechauns, elfs, goblins with chains on them and the wizard who led the band.   I sat very still because they were not real people; just sort of misty images of people who were fairies.   They stood around me and looked at me.  I thought I had turned into Alice in Wonderland.   I said, “Are you our fairies?” and the Wizard replied “No!  But you can see us, so we are yours”.   Astounding!  I had my own band of fairies, but they were not our family fairies.
 
I did tell my Dad “It's okay, I found the fairies, but they are not our family”.   “So, let me know when the Family Fairies come to visit”.  My Dad did that Dad stuff; smiled, laughed and went back to his Racing Guide.  What a treat she is stuff. 
 
A couple of days later; seemed like a couple of days; some ladies came to visit.   I had seen them before, but because I was only small, I just put them in that huge batch of relatives who invaded our home now and again.   This time Dad and Mum were serious as they introduced the ladies - “This is Aunty Eva!   And this is Aunty Bianca.  This is Aunty Isabella, and this is Aunty Irene”.  Wow!  They had the same names as the fairies.   Whew this was interesting.   And then Dad said, “These are my half-sisters, Eva Fairnie, Bianca Fairnie, Isabella Fairnie and Irene Fairnie”.   I have never been so disappointed in my life.   They were just Aunties.   I was looking forward to Fairies. 
 
So, I went back to my books where fairies danced and sang and waved wands to make things happen.  Not just more Aunties!  
​
 
Helen Duggin
22 February 2021
 
​

One moment stands out like none other.   It was the day We reached over seven hundred Covid Cases in Melbourne. 
 
We had a real pandemic on our hands.   Not a little, let’s play pandemic; this one was real.   I listened to Brett and Dan announce a huge Shut Down in Victoria--that if we did not shut down, we could end up like the US OF A or England.  
 
I must admit that the Covid Crisis affected me more than I thought it would.  It was like an invasive blanket sitting over everything I did.   There was danger out there and I had to admit I was scared.
 
I was on my own at home during the shutdown, just communicating minimally outside the home, mostly with shop assistants.   Well, the Moment went on for quite a long while.  One moment in time which stretches, even now, into a huge moment of fear and faith and security in the decisions people make.  
 
Facing almost certain death began to impact me as if there was a War.   I am of that lucky generation who has never experienced War, but I imagined that the Covid Crisis was a bit like a War.   In a War: Peace is dependent upon the actions of other people.  Mostly, other people!  But I had a role to play to remain safe and follow the community rules.
 
Fear that we would not do the right thing.   Fear that some fool would carry Covid into our Community.  Fear that some unknowing carrier of Covid would accidently spread the virus into our lives.  That someone I love may get Covid.  
 
Interestingly, my fear was a controlled fear.  The logic of the whole situation being examined every day.   Okay; stay home; stay safe.   Wear your mask.   Do not touch other people.  Listen and watch the numbers and instructions every day.   Simple! 
 
I accidently touched my Dentist this morning.  He handed me something and I accidently touched his hand.  I felt us both pull back.   We do not do that any longer.   He gave me some hand sanitiser to use which I was glad of.   We talked of Covid, because despite the Vaccinations we are still experiencing the effects of the year of Fear we lived in.   We both agreed; we have a way to go yet before Australia is safe.   But generally, people feel we will never be safe again.   Not just Covid, something else will develop.  
 
Family members returned to Australia to live after living in the US OF A for twenty-five years.  They went into two weeks Quarantine and there was an anxiety that perhaps they carried the virus in from the US .   They did not; and after release they headed straight for family and the beach.  They are not going back to the US OF A.  Or anywhere else, for the moment.
 
So; the doubters; the conspiracy theorists can pooh pooh my fear.   But it was my fear.   And it was my caution which has kept me home and being very careful during the Covid Crisis in Victoria, in Australia, in the World.  The figures speak for themselves.   And I will continue caution. 
 
So, this is not my normal ‘happy chappy’ write.  It is a form of therapy; a confession to being totally scared of Covid.   And to talk of the respect I have for the Australian population who worked to control the Virus.   And the lack of respect I have for the people who maintained it was not true.   Mind you, I think around 2% of the population always insist upon saying and living the opposite of other people.    It seems to give them individuality and they are entitled to their opinion, particularly as 98% of Australians have worked to keep them safe as well as themselves.  

2...

We will need this year and next to find a normal world again.   And then a couple of years for the trauma of Covid to slide into a memory.   In the meantime, stay safe; follow the rules and be vaccinated.   Then perhaps by the end of this year Australia will be smiling just a little more widely than it is now.   We seem to be heaving a sigh of relief, but with caution right now.   A way to go!  Lots of building to do.  Hopefully, a better world will develop as we have all faced the same enemy.
 
 
Helen Duggin
22 February 2021 ​

​The moon was full and we could hear the sound of running footsteps. We hid behind cars and crouched down beside wheels. We hid beside lamposts and waited for the chaser to be distracted as he or she found another runner. The sound of the footsteps as they clattered across gutters and down laneways. The bluestones making the sound of frantic escape past back gates and running into the light of the street light at the end of the lane. Enjoying the warmth of the Summer evening and the chase.

We didn't need the street lights; just the moonlight and all the kids running, hiding being found and then running, hiding again. The doors of the homes finally opening onto the street. No more than two metres off the footpath and the voices calling; Michael, Peter, Valda, Helen; come home now it is bedtime.

And the night became quiet in North Fitzroy as the kids in Egmont Street went inside for their evening drink before bed. Mine as always milk and sugar. Warm and comforting; then into bed with the wireless and a good book. But the memory of the night of adventure in the back streets of North Fitzroy etched in the memory bank to be pulled out and used when a magical personal moment was required.

My love of this time of day extended into my substantial life of memories and moments to love. It even extended into my game, tennis. Sitting watching the night come over the courts after a lovely day of activity and laughter. The light and the softness of the day sliding into night. The accomplishment of achieving another day to cherish and look into for a marvellous life in later years.

Camping on the Peninsula and the wonderful evenings after a hot day of beach, sailing and friendship. The camp lights coming on in each of the individual camps. People bringing their beach chairs out to sit and chatter about their lives and the day past. The kids disappearing into the fading light. Running as a gang in and out of camps and finding enough light to climb rocks and walk on the pier or just sit around talking. Groups and groups and groups of people who were friends enjoying each other laughing talking, opening bottles of win and laughing some
more. And after a day of living in the hot sun; the joy of the evening cool taking us all back to our day gone and another day coming. Knowing our kids were safe within ear shot (So we believed) and finally calling: Okay kids bedtime; and they came knowing that tomorrow was another day of the same. Beach, sun, surf and sailing. And at nightfall we would reflect and store the memories of the day.

I sat on my deck in complete silence in later years; the sun had slid out and the creek was making noises and now and again I could hear a sheep or a dog calling. The nightbirds calling. But mostly it was quiet; with just the creek making the sound as the night crept over the hill in front of the home. Silent, close and safe. Another beautiful memory to pop into my memory bank. No kids by then. All gone! Off into their own lives. To return now and again and share the quiet of the evening light sliding into darkness with their own children.

And Now: Walking the dogs through the streets of this country town. Nearly dark, but not quite there yet. A warm evening turning cool as we walked. Quiet, still and nearly devoid of traffic. The lights in the homes taking over the view as they came on. Walking past some front doors I can hear the TV noises. But mostly just quiet and calm; and so very beautiful. My footsteps the only sound as the sound changed with the changing surfaces of the footpath. My dogs walking
comfortably on their leads ; enjoying the cool and the darkness which came to us
as we approached home.

You might realise I love that time of the day. It is the best time of the day.  Because the day is done with and there is no regret to look back on; except living a life. And the town offers the beauty of community. Quietly hiding behind the lights of the houses. The soft evening air cooling me after a hot day. The light of the night engulfing and holding its most beautiful time.  The transition of evening to night. So soft; so fulfilling. A pleasure, a privilege in living. And knowing it will all come again; the softness, the darkness and the coolness of a beautiful evening.


Helen Duggin
21 November 2020

Listening to Dan talk about our incredible amazing time with this Virus has become a way of life for me. And I have to confess: Covid Isolation suits me nicely! I am an Isolate. During this worrying incredulous time in our lives has been a time of self realisation.

I moved to Strathbogie thirty years ago and lived a life with my Cavaliers and my Garden and my Tutoring. I only ventured into town for my work and shopping. The rest of the time I stayed tucked away in the Hills of the Strathbogie Ranges. I did not realise I was an isolate at the time; all I knew was that I loved living in my home tucked away beside the noisy creek; and across the road from the sheep lambing in the paddock. If I woke at night I would hear the newborns bleating for their first nurture from their Mum. I could hear the creek letting me know it was still moving and rumbling across the rocky base. And I could hear my Cavaliers snoring in their kennels. All I knew was that I was content. I never knew I was an Isolate.

Time to move out of the Hills and down I came. First Violet Town and now Benalla where I will stay. It was quite an adjustment. The mobile phone worked; the TV reception worked; my garden was smaller; I could walk to the shops and I did not mow for three hours a week. Cars travelled past the door and so did people. There was even a Supermarket and a Library. A vast civilised change from one General Store and four cars a night going past the gate.

Benalla has offered me; company, hobbies and wonderful people to share my interests with. Then I could scurry back to my home and be content that I had been out socially Active. I loved my time away from home. Society demands that we be social to some extent. Then Covid hit us like I have never experienced before. And self realisation set in.

The first thing I discovered was that I am a Vulnerable. Not just old but a vulnerable. And that was scary. The Virus is and has killed people with my auto immune problems in my age group. So I follow the rules to a T. This because I don't want to go out to any virus.

And I was fascinated with the development of this virus. The adaptations of the media and us general population people. I look forward to Dan's reports every day. I feel I am doing the right thing by listening and hearing other people's views. If I didn't do this I would be a true isolate who did not care; or an isolate who cared so much that life held nothing but fears.

​Privileged absolutely; I am comfortable in my multi roomed home with good heating and all my lovely memories around me. Plenty of food and Supermarkets within walking distance. I love the fact that no one is coming in the door. That I can plan my day without interruption and without feeling bad that I am not being social. Because I am not social. Lunches are my thing.

I just love to be invited as I have been socialised to believe that to not be invited is to reflect something wrong with myself. And I still love to be invited and I probably answer an invitation by attending but I am always an early leaver. Unless there is dancing and then I stay on to dance and enjoy the music. But that is not social. Just loving movement and dance and music of all kinds.

Did you know there are orchestral concerts on Utube. Did you know there is ballet on Utube. Do you know that you can feed in any artist or instrument and Utube tells you where to find them. I fed in OBOE the other day and I found great Oboe concerts to love. And listening to them in isolation is superb for me. Comfortable, warm and great music playing through the home. Magic stuff!

​I am playing Bridge online and enjoying Demystifying Psychology and now I am writing again. None of this would have developed without The Virus/Covid. And I wouldn't have discovered that Isolation suits me. I am an Isolate and quite frankly I love it.

But my family is all Over the Border or in Melbourne. So one thing I am missing is them and HUGS. They don't mind me not being around all the time because I am an Isolate and some of them are too. But those HUGS will be looked for as soon as the Restrictions are done with. HUGS AND LAUGHS and then back to being a Happy Isolate again. Doing my own thing but making sure people know I Love Them.

Helen Duggin 

Like looking at the end of a meal.  All the bits and pieces of delicious food left.  The whole dish meal has been consumed and it is only the leftovers that shine on the plate.  You can even see the plate pattern through the leftovers.  How wonderful to have consumed a great meal or event and then treasure the remains which will forever remind you of great beginnings and the eventual endings.
 
Here in Australia we have a turntable of political events which mark the endings of something.  Usually it is the Prime Minister being replaced by another ambitious politician who assumes he can present the Policies much better than the previous boss man.  What they don’t realise is that it is their Policies and Attitudes which are so very out of touch with what an educated population want.  Sniping and biting each other to get to the prize is not something the general population don’t know about.  It happens at all levels of Clubs, Families and Groups.  Eventually the sniping and biting has to cease, and two things can happen.  Matters are resolved; people decide to just get on with one another and now and again co-operate; or it is a definite separation/ending. 
 
I’ve found endings can be minute or huge.  I examined my Life Endings and found so many that I am having trouble finding the source of the true endings. 
 
The end of being a childless person was definitely an ending I did not expect to have such an impact.  You know that wonderful cutesie little bub who you carry for nine months and give birth to.  Sitting in a chair nursing said child with contentment written all over you.  That is what is sold, but the reality is something half-way in between this.  The exhaustion of no sleep; the nappies which had to be dried in the Winter; the people who called in just as you got the little screaming bundle to sleep.  And the crying; and the joy of the first smile and the development of the beautiful personality.  But in between there was the everyday of keeping that little one safe and cared for and loved; And yourself, because one did not exist without the other.  But you knew the ending was worth it.  Because the event is superb and it is a never ending story.
 
I, like every parent, signed up for the duration.  Eventually they leave home and you can watch with pride and joy and sometimes grief, the adult they have become.  And the naïve think this is the ending.  But it is not the Ending.  They come back; again and again and again because we have created an environment which is full of love and acceptance.  And eventually they bring other people with them.  And we continue on another life of endings and beginnings.
 
Career endings.  Changing careers through life.  How wonderful we can now do this without being stuck in a drudge career which is not suitable.  We have the facility to introduce change, itself an ending and, of course, a beginning.  I think of my Family careers of long ago - dressmakers; shoemakers’ shopkeepers; racing trainers; publicans - all locked into something they had to do to make a living.  They all grew to like what they did because it served a purpose.  But they opened up for subsequent generations to be able to choose; to create endings for themselves and beginnings for themselves.  When they did, they saw the plate they built their lives upon.  Their family who said:  Go for it, if that’s what you have to do.  Change, but make it good.  Build on a secure base.  I am with you.
 
Begin again.  Continue with what you are doing, but always be prepared to create an ending that will lead to a wonderful beginning.  And sometimes it is not wonderful, but it is what you have to do to allow yourself to develop into you.  A person who, every day, experiences endings and beginnings and loves every minute of it.

​
Helen Duggin
14 November, 2018

The streets were quiet and the daylight crept across the tram lines; and power poles; and early walkers.  The delivery trucks appeared.  There was one at our door as I opened the doors of the Milk Bar/Mixed Business.  He hefted the milk crate on to his stomach and began to walk to our door.  “How much today?”  “Two crates of bottles and half a dozen cream”.  And he carried them across the threshold where he placed them within the shop.  “See you tomorrow” and he was gone.

The milk had to be stored in the fridges.  I opened the top and placed the bottles in the cavity.  The old milk had been moved to the front the night before.  Those would be sold first.  Or used for milk shakes.  That done a quick wipe around and the first customer.  Just as the bread delivery arrived.  The list of what was required handed to the delivery person.

Loaves of fresh bread came into the shop and a space was made for it in the room behind the shop.  Only a few loaves were displayed.  People had to ask for what they wanted.  Usually a half loaf of high tin because bread was brought most days by people.  The customer was served; in those days usually cigarettes or milk.  Early morning fodder for the customer.

The trams were now rolling past filled with people going to work; along St Kilda Road or further on into the City.  The traffic had increased and I had to sweep the front footpath.  Most important to show a clean front door.  And I swept and passed the time of day with people walking past.  “Gday”.  “Good Day!”  All those traditional greetings, including “good job”.  As the person skipped past me with my every moving broom.

Next door; the factory which made ladies shirts opened its doors for the women and girls who worked there.  The factory worked on ‘piece work’ rates.  The person who works fastest gets the most money.  And the industrial sewing machines began to roar.  The wireless went on for the girls to listen to music.  The girls happy to have work and occupation and knowing that Fast is Best for Money in the Bank.

My Mum came out front to take over.  I went inside to shower and get ready for work.  I worked as a Stenographer at a building firm which had its Offices in St Kilda Road.  I enjoyed my walk to work.  Past the Alfred Hospital, across Fawkner Park and into the back entrance of my workplace.  The building firm I worked for was building the Sydney Opera House and so the work was fascinating as the edifice of beauty far away in Sydney took shape.  Ordering materials and negotiating with subcontractors.  Making sure the Architect was happy and all the other things that led to our marvellous Opera House.
​
After work I went home to the shop and helped with the evening rush.  Always busy with people going home from work.  They hopped off the trams and came in the doors happy that their days work was done.  Sometimes they stood three deep waiting to be served.  Mum happy and me enjoying greeting people.  I was known as “Mrs Duggin’s girl”.  Hundreds of people came through the shop doors.  Mostly I forgot them all.  But strangely enough they seemed to remember me.  Years later I would be at a dog show or a Writers Workshop and someone would smile and say “You’re Mrs Duggin’s girl”.  And we would all smile in greeting.
 
Helen Duggin
27 August 2018

Glenn Miller was playing on the radio and the lounge room was moving off its stumps.  The family had amassed to celebrate ‘something’ and the music boomed out the rhythms of that old time band.  George tossed the eighteen month old into the air and caught her just as his sister and brother-in-law arrived on the scene.  Snatching their baby from him and letting him know “No one threw their precious daughter in the air”.  And the music played on.

Music, dance, sport and personal safety and having a good time figured very strongly in our family.  Work was necessary but served the purpose of allowing enough time and money so favourite rituals of life could be developed and followed.

Once I remember thinking that it would be lovely to earn a living doing something you really loved.  This became a rule within our family.  If you had to settle for a job which was not your desired past time, so be it.  If you got lucky and worked at a loved past time then celebrations of life ensured.  Many people worked in areas of life which followed their desired past times.  This became a rule or ritual within the family.
​
I was good enough to earn a living as a dancer but decided that I preferred the Secretarial life over being a Channel Nine Dancer.  I remember walking into my Aunt’s bedroom one night during a party with the Cousin’s work mates.  And there were the dancers, boys and girls, practicing their lifts.  My Aunt had hand prints all over the ceiling of her bedroom.  But that was not the life for me.  Many of the family decided to not become great dancers.  But they were employed in allied fields such as producing major events and judging competitions.  They can still be found in those fields of dance and music.

One of the major productions was the Half Time Entertainment at the MCG.  When they used school kids and others to make lovely patterns and entertain people waiting for the football to start again.  That was fun for everyone.  Mary the producer had an annual nervous breakdown trying to coordinate all those people and costumes.  Other members of the family assisted pushing lots of people into the right places.  Jane, another cousin, helped with the production of the Wallaby Rugby Union team.  It was her job to get them all into the right places for playing, photos, etc.  It seems we are always telling people where to be.

Worth noting:  I decided not to be a dancer and, not good enough to be a tennis player, I became a teacher and so still told people where to be.  My school concerts were a work of art too.  We danced, sang and made music as if it was a production on the stage of the Princess Theatre.  Costumes came up the highway courtesy of my cousin’s dancing school in Melbourne.  So I escaped the Channel Nine Ballet, but I did not escape the ritual of producing pleasurable events for those persons who came under my jurisdiction.

Interestingly enough I decided my daughter was not to dance.  So we went to calisthenics and I found myself at competitions and organising costumes and putting up with bitching parents of other girls.  Hang on – I was avoiding this.  And strangely enough my cousin who decided not to dance finds herself going to competitions and organising costumes for her youngest daughter.  The daughter’s activity:  rhythmic gymnastics.

We just can’t escape the ritual of dance, music, sport and production.  The ritual of fun times being organised by us for our enjoyment lives on.
 
Helen Duggin,
25/6/2018

My brother Stan was nine years older than me.  He is the person who influenced me more than any other.  Not all the time; but long term his existence became my reference point.  The person who gave me focus and reference to life’s living concepts.  I find even now that I refer to his situation in life as a way of understanding my own life.  My brother was intellectually impaired; caused by anoxia at birth.  Down in all aspects of his physical and intellectual being but functioning close to average.  His “smarts” were worth watching.  He was a rod of responsibility to my Mother who wanted to love and protect him to death.   A despair to my Father who wanted him treated like a regular Bloke.

He was annoying, jealous, aggressive; all those things big brothers can be.  And I, as the little sister, responded as a little sister would.  With jealousy, annoying and aggression.  And at times a touch of resentment.  Mum always felt that some things had to be Stanley’s.  Like the dog was his because he was so very good with dogs.  I locked his dog in the laundry once and incurred the wrath of the parents as I had done something to Stanley’s dog.  Now those who know me will realise that I am actually a long time breeder of pure bred Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and adore the dog world.  And so I compensated myself for my not having dogs as a child.

Stanley was getting a little hassled at school.  He went to Bell Primary School.  His schooling is owrth mentioning here.  Someone told my Mum that he should go to the Special School.  So Mum took him along for assessment.  They refused his application, telling my Mum the following:  “Don’t put him in here, he is too close to normal”.  So a negotiation was done with Bell PS and he was allowed to stay through to Year 7 and Year 8 with a special program.  Then he left at 14.  I began at the same school at age six.  Stanley left as I began.

My gorgeous brother played his mother like a fiddle.  It was masterful.  He was spoilt rotten and I decided that I loved him totally despite my wanting to fight him, as sisters do.  And I got into huge trouble for using him as target practice with books flying around and onto him.  This because he had taken my book.  (He wasn’t a great reader but could read at about a Grade 3 to 4 level).  My books were open to his abuse.  Not fair!

So I grew up with the “not fair” syndrome but also with the “loving” syndrome.  He grew up and I grew up.  My kids came along and they ADORED their Uncle Stan.  I came home from work one day and the three of them were lying around the Family Room all crying.  They were watching a movie called “Tim”.  All about an intellectually disabled man.  They travelled with Stan on trains and trams; they talked to him and they loved him.  Because despite his intellectual disability he was a top bloke.

Living with a disabled brother who had been spoilt made me aware of how disabling too much protection is.  I was determined to work with people with disabilities.  So I became a teacher of the deaf.  We had a day in the middle of our course when we were all asked why we had come into Special Education?  “Put your hands up if you have immediate family who are disablied”.  There were one hundred teachers in that lecture theatre and every hand went up.  Cousins, brothers, fathers, sisters, aunts, uncles; all represented in those hands that rose.  We had all been influenced by someone close with a disability; Or different; or special; or just downright a person who did not get everything they needed to live a totally regular life.

Stan gave me a perspective of life and its possibilities which allowed me to take whatever came.  Good/bad, lazy/active, intellectually excellent and the thrill of just learning an extra word.  He joined me in following Fitzroy Football Club.  He went to all their training sessions.  He travelled overseas on his own on cruises and just before he died I got him a motor scooter.  He was famous in Euroa for holding up traffic; giving drivers rude signs if they tooted him; and would ring the RACV if he ran out of power.  I once asked if he was being a nuisance.  The reply was “Don’t worry about him.  We have it all under control”.   And they did.  Even the day he drove across Burton’s Bridge in the middle of the lane at 10kms an hour with a line of twenty five cars following him.  Euroa had him under control.
​
So that funny little man, my brother, taught me more about tolerance and adaptability and kindness than anyone else.  He was the nicest bloke and he brought out the best in most people.
 
Helen Treloar Duggin,
26/5/2018

What I was wearing was grief.  My Mum died and as the eldest child I was in charge.  This because Dad had remarried as had my Mother.  So older influence was sadly missing at our place except for a grand dame, named Ida and another not so grand dame, Maggie.  Mum's sisters!  Vera my younger sister and I were in charge of the younger kids.  George, Nellie and Gladys, our little sister of four.  We lived in the family home opposite the Flemington Race Course.  There my father had his stables as he was a Horse Trainer as well as a butcher at the Victoria Market.  But at this time my Father was tied up with his second family, which kept growing nearly annually.  And of course he still had his horses and business.  And I was in grief.  I was miserable.  Fancy being eighteen and in charge.

I wasn't easily distracted from my grief.  A game of cards did the trick quite often.  But forget the singing and piano playing.  My mum had sung and played piano everyday and particularly on Sunday when there was always a party at our place.  And just a smidgeon of gambling.  We had loved the partieis because our Mum sang and now and again someone would ask us to go to the shops for cigarettes or chocolate.  We always got a tip or two out of the pockets of the visitors.

So I was miserable; missing my Mum and our life with her.  I drove everyone crazy with my 'Not today's'.  I went to work five days a week and sometimes Saturday morning.  I was a seamstress.  But try to snap me out of my misery?  It was impossible.  Cakes, scones, jokes; anything to make me laugh again.  But it wasn't very successful.  Miserable Dolly lived within the family home and Miserable Dolly was determined to maintain her grief because it suited her.  Someone had to cook and clean and organise everyone.  That was me!!!

One Melbourne Cup Day I was talked into attending the Cup.  It was only across the road.  Dad had horses running in other races.  I considered this offering from my siblings and then decided I would go.  But what to wear?  Wearing grief is not much fun for me or anybody else.  So I began to dress very carefully for this outing with Aunts, Uncles, Father, Siblings; everyone went to the Melbourne Cup.  It was just across the road.  Out the house; across the sale yards; crossed Flemington Road; in through the gates past Dad's stables and we only had to walk a small distance to the Members' Stands.  Easy stuff!  But what to wear?

I looked in Mum's cupboard and found a super dress that would not fit me because Mum was considerably taller than me and quite a bit fatter.  Vera said "wear this".  A lilac chiffon dress with matching shoes.  I gave that a miss!  Not Dolly enough, Too Vera!  I looked in my own cupboard and found a black voile dress with spots (white); cross over front and calf length skirt.

Shoes were court shoes with a heel: black of course.  Stockings were neutral in colour.  Done!

I had a smile at myself in the full length Cheval mirror in Mum's old room.  My hair looked good.  I had black curly hair which I wore short.  This because I was a short person and long hair did not suit my ample bosum and hour glass figure.  I was pretty good looking I thought as I looked in the mirror.  Mum would have approved.

I wore one of Mum's Cloque hats: black of course.  And I carried a black bag.  But it was not complete so I went to Mum's clothes.  She had a Mink Fur stole - they were ever so popular then.  It was brown in colour and sat just right across my neck and shoulders.  Soft and luxurious.  Now I was smiling.  Sad Dolly had become Happy Dolly.

At the races I became jubilant as I witnessed Phar Lap win the Melbourne Cup.  We sang and we danced and we appreciated a great horse and a terrific race meeting.  I wore grief and joy.  I began to laugh again that day: family, beautiful clothes and a super day of horse racing.  RIP Mum!


Helen Duggin
​21 April 2018

Boggle was the name of our fish.  He (we assume he was a boy), was a big, fat goldfish.  He lived in a bowl on our kitchen bench and thought he was a dog or cat.  He rose to the top of the bowl when the children came into the kitchen, hovering near the top of the water until they spoke to him,  “Hullo, Boggle”.  Boggle would then dive gracefully back into the depths of his bowl.  Until one day, when we found Boggle on the floor.  He had done a kamakasie dive out of the safety of his bowl, landing on the kitchen floor where he died because no one was home to rescue him.  He was a fish out of water and sadly he died.  I’m sure it was his chosen method of dying.  We buried Boggle in the back yard and even now remember and talk of Boggle.  Boggle’s actions helped us interpret peoples’ behaviours.
 
I have a Godson who liked to jump out of planes.  Freefalling it is called.  He was not a candidate for freefall parachuting when you looked at him.  Just an ordinary Aussie bloke who loved horse racing and two up who also liked freefalling from a plane.  As his godmother I was not at all impressed with this occupation, but he smiled sweetly, patted me on the head and continued to jump.  He was comfortable as he always was.  I was not.
 
He decided to move to Lightning Ridge, where his brother had an opal mine, to try his luck with the opals.  His brother was rapt to have an extra pair of hands to dig and to have company in the house.  So Tom journeyed to join his brother Simon in the profession of miner.
 
Whilst delighted, Simon decided to have some fun with Tom and organised to meet him and drive him into the Ridge.  On the way he stopped at one of the pubs and said to Tom, “Go and pick up some beer will you?”  “Certainly” Tom replied as he climbed from the ute and approached the pub verandah.
 
Tom entered the pub and stopped dead in his tracks.  Not what he expected.  He walked to the bar and asked for the beers.  Still not easy, he paid and walked out of the pub.  At the door he began to shake.  We don’t know if it was relief, fear or anger.  His sweet brother had set him up to enter an all black pub.  Our Tom was the only white man in that pub and every eye turned to watch him walk to the bar and then exit. 
 
Considering his normal past activities it took a pub full of aboriginals to make our Tom be ill at ease.   He still talks of being the only one; of his discomfort whilst not backing down.  A fish out of water absolutely.
 
Being comfortable in our own skin is one thing; being comfortable in our own environment is another.  But stepping into a new environment and experiencing that feeling of not belonging is not a nice feeling.  Uneasy, jumpy, not knowing correct behaviours and hoping people will accept our ignorance of the environment.   No need to die like Boggle.  Just face it, get through it and then go back to our own safe environment.  Just like Tom did and Boggle didn’t. 

​
Helen Duggin
September 2017

The Wedding was spectacular. Held in the court yard of an ancient building. One of those
courtyards where the bricks we walked on were so old they had indentations in them. This building sited beside a river with towering river gums overhead. The antique bricks reflected the colour of the ages gone by; reds and creams; rough finish on some and smooth on others. All handmade. A symbol of times gone by. It was Summer and the temperature climbed into the high 90s. The trestle tables were set out in long rows ready to receive the one hundred and seventy guests. Huge fans turned from every vantage point and spread water spray on the people walking past or lucky enough to be sitting in the span of the turning circle of the fans.

I'd planned to wear something spectacularly clinging and romantic, as fitted the setting. But as the day was so very hot I changed to a simple shift; no stockings, just fake tanned legs. And then the shoes, I could not compromise on them or the hat. The hat was a huge black straw hat with a very wide brim. And the shoes were high heeled with straps. Totally impossible to walk in after years of ignoring these beautiful things which had lived in my wardrobe for twenty years,

Where do you wear four inch heels, with straps and no backs. Shoes that were bought so that my long legs could display them when I crossed my legs. How beautiful to sit with long legs crossed elegantly displaying painted nails and gorgeous black strappy sandals. The joy of posing and knowing all was beautiful below the knees.

The wedding party was spectacular. Modern and sentimental. The groom was Jewish and so we had Mazel Tov as the glass was broken under the archway of tradition. And the party began. It was years since I had had any interaction with Jewish people; not since moving from Windsor in Melbourne and playing tennis against them at AJAX Sports Club. So we talked and reminisced about the Sports Club and other mutually known traditions. And I stood in my very elegant shoes in my black elegant hat and renewed my friendship with the Jewish religion. And the heat continued and everyone began to take things off but not my shoes. They were firmly on my feet.

I wondered if they could dance. And they could. We carried the bride and groom around the dance floor and joined hands singing traditional songs. Quite frankly we rocked! And the party went on for hours and hours. Everyone singing and dancing. Me still tottering along on my wonderful strappy sandals praying I would not break an ankle. The sun went down, dinner was over and still we sang and dance. Mamma Mia came on and I think one hundred and fifty people stood and moved to the dance floor. And we sang and joined with each other in complete celebration of the wonderful night; beautiful company, sharing the joy of the newly married couple.

The music stopped and we all went home. I put myself in my car and drove home in a euphoric state having experienced a wedding I would never forget. I only had one other wedding I remembered in the same way. It was not mine but friends who had a wedding where the dancing and singing was monumentally wonderful. That one set overlooking Port Phillip Bay.

Next morning I placed my wonderful shoes back in amongst my other shoes; the sneakers for walking; the Rockports for comfort; the flat black court shoes for those lunches beside the lake; the sandals for the hot weather and the shoes I bought for someones wedding twenty years ago and that came out for Winter Weddings. Nestled amongst this mundane, ordinary shoes there are my high heeled strappy sandals. Resting now after a hard night of enjoyment and enthusiastic partying.  The hat lay somewhere in the bedroom along with the shift dress.

​Those shoes are the odd thing out in my Wardrobe; impractical but so very beautiful And only to be worn on beautiful occasions such as the wonderful wedding beside the river in an ancient building celebrating the union of a loved couple.


*​Helen creatively renamed her 'Odd One Out' story 'Odd Thing Out'...

​Going to work on the Old Open sided Trams with friends.   Jumping off the trams to avoid the  ticket collectors and talking talking talking about the day to come.   Running across the road opposite the YMCA to jump on the Green Bus to go to Fishermans Bend and to work at GMH.   That was travelling for me in my first year out of school.   The idea of travelling overseas a dream; a promise but almost impossible to imagine.  And eighteen years later it became a possibility.   Not my initial idea of backpacking across Europe but non the less it was so very exciting to be going overseas.   Three kids and a husband to travel with and  the enthusiasm was immense. 
 
We walked to the terminal to leave our loved ones behind when we boarded the QANTAS jet.   The kids are decked out in Australian Flag T Shirts (as if we were going to lose the kids).    They said if they got lost they could be returned to Oz.     Funny kids who were as excited as we were.  We had never travelled on a Qantas jet before.  Except when we went to Queensland.   But this was a big jet.   Lots of people and a very long way to travel to Germany.    And we were going for a whole year. 
 
It was just before Xmas; to be precise; it was the 17th December.   The plane was loaded with people travelling to Germany and the Netherlands for Xmas.   Marvellous atmosphere and generally a feeling of party on the plane.   We were well looked after by the Stewards who immediately moved our kids half way up the plane and us down to just outside Business Class.  “We will look after the kids; you enjoy yourself”.   So we sat with lots of leg room and our three darlings being catered for by the Qantas staff.   Excellent service!  
 
The kids walked up and down the plane to talk to us and complain about this or that.  They rang the bell and summoned the stewards who came promptly and indulged these three little darlings demanding ; drinks, chips and food of various kinds.   The kids were having a ball.
 
The Stewards were beginning to call them nuisance names:  “You again; Haven't you had enough” and stuff like that.  Always with a smile.
 
Oh dear something was out of sorts with the plane.  No we were not falling out of the sky.  Just something trivial.   So being an Australian owned airline they then lifted all restrictions on the alcoholic drinks everyone could have.  Free from Qantas.  And so the party continued.   Until we reached Frankfurt.   A great flight.  
 
After we left Amsterdam the population of the plane had fallen to below half.   Just us people going onto Frankfurt.   So they broke out the champagne and flew very low over the farmlands of Europe so we could all see the geography and sights of country Germany.   It was magic.  
 
Frankfurt we stopped smiling;   in the terminal there were Police everywhere and they all had  German Shepherd dogs.  But what really made us all gape ;  they carried submachine guns.  We had never seen anything like it before.  The kids walked very close to us and we walked very close to one another.   We were not real brave just trying to cope with a situation we had not expected.   The contrast to the atmosphere on the Qantas Jet was just a little daunting for us first time out of Australia people.    
 
We were travelling to Munich so had to catch a domestic flight from Frankfurt.   The flight was called and we began to go through their security checks.    We had never encountered security checks before.  Just the casual Australian stuff of someone waving a wand over us as we entered the boarding area.   This was a real security check.  Bags opened; hand bags examined; items shaken; even my Ventolin inhaler was taken apart to see what it was.    Scary stuff for us Aussies.   
 
The plane was not a jet but we managed to control our fear and we boarded.   The smiles had gone from our faces.  We had entered a new land.   An environment totally alien to our Australian ways.   I think fear; real honest to goodness fear was just below the surface.   However,  we took ourselves and our three teenage children in hand and advanced towards our destination; Munchen.   Magic Munchen.
 
We were released from the plane; and found in the terminal; no guns and no german shepherd dogs.   Just people speaking German and smiling at this strange band of Aussie Travellers.  We were all rugged up as it was minus ten when we arrived.   We had ordered a white Xmas to embellish our trip and it looked like it was going to be given to us. 
 
All rugged up and at journeys end, for now.   We were destined to go to England to spend twelve months in the north of England.   Manchester University and Stockport was home for a year but for now we were in Munchen.   We collected our luggage and walked through the doors to the park surrounding the Airport.   It was like walking into an ice cave.   Great icicles hung from all the trees.   Our breath nearly froze  and every plant had a coating of white.   When I picture it now ; it was like a Xmas card only better.  Starker and beautifully precise.   Magical environment.   
 
A journey I will never forget.   Such an adventure.   And so very beautiful at the journeys end. 
 
Munchen was magic; and Europe opened its doors to us that day.   We travelled extensively through Europe during the following year.   A memory that will never fade.   Travel does that!  
 
 
Helen Treloar Duggin
July 2017

Good Old Collingwood Forever was the theme song of our family.   An Inner Melbourne Family who worked in the Racing Industry and allied trades including gambling.   The rules were simple  Dont set out to hurt others; If they hurt you walk away and wait your time and do not befriend them.   Be honest:   gambling gives you every chance of losing your money easily and does not hurt anyone but you and yours.   Quite frankly in those days gambling was a pastime, a hobby and opposing gambling was another pastime. Not pursued by our family. 

It did not help that the Uncle owned the Collingwood Town Hall Hotel and another relative owned the Grace Darling Hotel.   Birth place of the Collingwood Football Club.

​So I lived deep in the heart of Collingwood territory.   The theme song was sung at every family occasion even funerals.   It was Collingwood saturation at our place.  

But we moved house and I found another Club.  Just around the corner.  It was the Fitzroy Football Club.  Being an individual I thought this looked like a very good idea.   Seeing as everyone else barracked for Collingwood.   So I set about to knit a Fitzroy Scarf.  The family indulged me knowing this was the child who was asserting herself.   This was encouraged as opposing childish initiative was a futile activity.   The Child Knows Best was the motto in our family.   But Fitzroy!!!!  They were whispering to one another things like:  “She will get over it.   No one barracks for Fitzroy.”   ​

It got pretty serious when I started going to matches.   Sat behind the goal and wrapped myself in a Gorillas Scarf and screamed myself hoarse as the boys marched through the opposition.   In the meantime the song of the Collingwood Club was sung louder and louder at our place.   Finally it was decided to intervene.   I was to be taken to a match by my favourite Aunt who wore black and white even when she slept.  Pressure!   

I sat in that stand surrounded by Collingwood supporters trying to please my Aunt.  But she knew they had lost me.   Collingwood was not my team.  Fitzroy was!  And on the way out she simply said “No good Toots”    She knew my heart belonged somewhere else. 

I knew I was accepted when my Dad bought me tickets for the finals Fitzroy was playing in.   He sat with me in the stand at the MCG and said how sorry that my team lost.  He wanted my team to win as a mark of support for my choice.   Never again was I asked to follow Collingwood.   My rebellion was complete.  

I had never rebelled before.   But the family handled it as they always did.   With pressure to stay; and then support for the decision.  So Good old Collingwood Forever!   I learnt how to rebel without starting a War.    Its called loving pressure and then support for decisions made.   Unconditional love; No!   Respect for the rights of others to choose.

HELEN DUGGIN   25/6/2017

'The young man stood in front of the tank, arm upraised in the STOP Signal. The Tank Driver weaved to avoid him. But the young man followed the line. Finally the young man stood to one side and allowed the tank to go on its journey. But that image moved around the World. The symbol of ordinary opposition to Military oppression. It is the symbol of the firing on students in Beijing Square. I wasn't there. I was sitting in a lounge room talking to parents about the future of their deaf son.

The young man attended a Primary School in Springvale, Melbourne. The school was a vibrant place to work as the school housed and welcomed one hundred and forty eight nationalities. It was beside the Springvale Migrant Hostel which was overflowing with Asian and other nationalities in the time after the Vietnam War and other trouble spots which made effective living for families impossible.

​The family requested a Parent Teacher interview to take place in their home. I agreed as it is good to see the home environment for a deaf child. I was welcomed and we began to discuss the son and his progress. Then the phone rang.  The father went to answer it with an “Excuse Me”, went white and had to hold the edge of the table. He spoke in Chinese. When he turned he said “They have turned the guns onto the students in Beijing Square”.  His wife dropped her head to her hands and I asked if I should leave. His reply was: “No! Please proceed. Australia is the future for my children”. We have been ejected from Indo China and now Vietnam. Australia is home!

So we talked: the phone rang frequently. He was President of the Indo Chinese association in Australia. He answered and when he returned to us he told his wife and myself what was happening. Someone's son had been killed; someone's family had disappeared and couldn't be contacted; a man in Springvale who had family in Beijing died of a heart attack.

And so we talked of the future for their sons here in Australia. But at the same time the attacks in Beijing reached out and were part of the conversation. The father continued to talk on the phone; mentoring and comforting those callers. I realise now; this family was used to living with fear and dread of expulsions and worse. But it was important for them to continue with their living and their future.

I was not in Beijing but ten thousand miles away.  I sat listening, feeling the despair of a family far away and safe from guns and expulsion. The agony as they hoped their loved ones and family were safe. A family who had been on the run for years and years and were sure Australia was their hope and future. I can confirm this was so.

When Malcolm Fraser died a group from the Chinese community carried a banner. “Thank You Mr Fraser”, attending his funeral to pay thanks to this person who saw them as worthwhile and opened our borders to so many people in need. 

I wasn't there but that night changed me forever. And seeing those Chinese Vietnamese Cambodian people saying thank you.

​I remembered my own personal legacy. I never knew. I had studied Wars and Nations but I never knew until that night when the tanks rolled into Beijing and people died for their beliefs.



HELEN TRELOAR DUGGIN
22 May 2017

​The block in basketball and football.  Very effective as long as you do not infringe.  The blocking of a candidate for a position.  No reason usually unless it is personal gain. But the block goes in.
 
The block I am concerned with here is the emotional block which prevents writing or drawing or walking or living for some people.  The block that injures the individual to the extent where all pathways for self expression are extinct either temporarily or permanently.  Lucky if a window appears again.  And then self motivation is required to step into the window and bring the individual system back to life.  Thus enabling the block to be controlled as what it is meant to be : a momentary time for reflection and growth.  A time of recovery; a time of direction into something else.  A time to let the process of living fester and grow within the individual.  So blocks are something special. A curse to those who make their livings writing or painting or just living.  But sometimes necessary in the process of personal development.
 
So the process of the continued building of the process which will positively build words that will build an image of something, anything; meaningful ??  Sometimes but not always.  But the process has commenced again after THE BLOCK.  Developing and arranging a vocabulary which will enable the process of writing to recommence.  Putting the circumstances of the BLOCK behind the curtain of history and rearranging life to include the wonderful world of Writing for pleasure and purpose.  The world of expressing an opinion and knowing it is not to be forgotten even if it is only you who reads and knows.  It has been recorded.
 
So the block is put into place as a time when the experiences of life are condensed and compounded into concepts of understanding.  Not a useless exercise.
 
So the BLOCK is gone; expression returns; something to say confirmed.  Small beginnings; minute beginnings but enough to break the block of non production of the written word.  Usually it means a development within the person ; a development which enables growth in personal self, not necessarily writing.  But opens a pathway to enable the writing to recommence.
 

Mummy said I had to go to stay with her cousin in a place hours from Melbourne.  The cousin lived on a farm, had five kids about my age and would be happy to have me for a couple of weeks in the holidays.  This whole thing being necessitated by my Mother buying a Milk Bar and us moving from a suburban house to the SHOP where Mummy worked seven days a week.  It had also necessitated me travelling to school eight miles each day on public transport.  And I was twelve.  A delightful age for these changes to occur.  But they were necessary.  I think!
 
I was loaded on the train at Spencer Street Station in Melbourne.  One of those old trains with the passage down the side.  I was placed nicely in a compartment with a reasonable looking person with a smile from my Mum who said nicely “Keep an eye on her please.  She is travelling on her own but will be met at the Camperdown Railway Station.”  All went well.  I arrived and was picked up in a black vehicle by the cousin who is here named Clare.  She seemed nice enough.
 
We arrived at the home on the hill.  I will never forget that long, long drive.  My first job was to check the mail box and then open and close the farm gate.  I became interested about then as I really liked having jobs to do.  I’m actually quite good at jobs.  Jobs at school; jobs for Mum; jobs for Dad; jobs for my Aunties and now I had new jobs; opening and closing farm gates.
 
The farm house sat at the top of the Hill.   And I was to learn to like it quite a lot.  It was fun having five kids around me to muck around with.  But the real action was at night.  They had a Generatror which made electricity, but sometimes it malfunctioned and everyone had to use candles.  A most fascinating situation for a city type like myself.  A person who used to read until all hours by electric light; listen to the radio and use all manners of appliances using electricity.  But here at cousin Clare’s place we had a generator. 
 
A couple of days were spent learning the ropes around the place with the cousins testing me to see if I would pass muster as a reasonable person to have around.  Little things like teaching me to acqua plane down the fir trees on my back.  Or having to collect the eggs which I knew all about but they had things like snakes there that had to be watched out for.  I had to show my courage by going in with the chooks without freaking out because of the snake that lived in there too.  I never saw it; just cousins terrorising me.
 
At night we had tea quite early, in daylight.  I soon learnt why.  It was a race to get the meal over and the dishes done before the generator was primed up and we had electric light to live by.  The generator was not reliable and went out at the most inopportune times.  The first time I encountered its vile personality I was in the bathroom getting ready for bath and bed.  Enjoying the light and the warmth of the bath.  The chip heater had been fired up for this event and it did not happen every day.  No way!  But this night; electric light, warm bath and me ready to be clean Kid again.  So you can guess what happened; Bam!  Out went the lights.  Me stark naked and soaking wet.  I just stood there in the pitch blackness of the country night.  No light from anywhere.  Strange house.  And then the wonderful Clare arrived with a candle.  Now I could see again.  An adventure!   Absolutely!  Clean, and into bed.  There to allow my imagination to entertain me until sleep came to me.
 
The next night the generator kept pumping away and I actually read a book for a while.  But everyone had to go to bed early because it was early rising on the farm.  It was a dairy farm; a soldier settler farm.  The cows could be milked by machine only if the generator allowed it.  Otherwise it was all done by hand.  So it was all hands to the teets every morning and I was taught to extract milk from the cows; put it into big silver containers and skim the cream off the top.  I learnt to make butter by churning it by hand.  The silver containers were picked up by a truck at the gate twice a day.  So the generator was useful if it worked, but these dairy farmers relied on their own hands mostly as the generator was not reliable.
 
Then there was the night of the fight.  The generator was working.  We sat around the dinner table talking about our day and then the Mother and Father began to argue about stuff.  I was mentioned and I began to feel terribly uneasy.  My parents fought, but never in front of me.  The words became louder and louder.  One of my cousins touched my shoulder and I left the room; he whispered, “best if you go to bed, it could get nasty”.  And it did.  Then the generator went out and the fight subsided.
 
I was in the top bunk and I remember my cousin creeping into the bunk below me.  I suspected one of the kids had knocked the generator out.  I was homesick anyway and this really upset me.  Dark, fights going on between two people and kids creeping around the house in the dark.  I just lay there.  Then the door opened and the candle came inside with Clare’s face appearing beside my bed.  I looked very ghostly and my imagination was well and truly running wild.  I had imagined blood and gore all over the house.  Truly terrified, but there she was, good as gold and tucking me in with a kiss and a “Sorry, Darling.  Just a bad night.”
 
Then when she went outside I hear the voice raised, “Who is the smart arse who turned off the bloody generator”.  Well, that was never admitted to but my roommate was laughing into her blankets.  She quietly told me: “We do it all the time when they start to fight, it’s hard to fight in the dark”. 
 
So the generator was also a peace giver.  Only if it was turned off at the right time.  But mostly the thing turned off at the most inopportune time.  I think perhaps they needed a roster to put the fuel into it more regularly.  I remember one day when someone went out with fuel and it restarted.  But mostly it was a matter of  ‘Bloody Generator’ and the candles were lit.
 
I travelled home remembering that bloody generator and the moments its dispensing with efficiency marked.  But when I got home, my reading light went on; my radio went on and I made toast for breakfast.  I was very thankful I didn’t need that bloody generator to live with.
 
​
 
Helen Duggin
March 2017

A long time ago there lived a lady school teacher who was dedicated to Deaf Children and their wellbeing.  She was born and bred inner Melbourne, raised her kids in the suburbs but drifted back into inner Melbourne as often as possible. But her career was stagnant.  Support Centres were downsizing. Her divorce was years old and her kids were grown and left home.  So what next.  The next was a move to Country Victoria.
 
Career driven and adventure desirous, a group of schools were selected to be Headteacher at. Places like Mitta Mitta, Granya and Strathbogie as well as about twenty others dotted around Victoria.  It became a Support Centre joke to speak as she walked past “Where the …... is Granya??” Followed by huge laughter.
 
Imagine the disappointment when a place called BENDIGO came up as the destination. Just big Melbourne; put on the list of desired appointments because she needed another place on the list. But it was not to be.
 
In those days you could be knocked out of a position by a person who held a superior number to yourself and after a day in Bendigo she arrived home to be notified, by mail; that Bendigo was gone and her new destination was a placed called Strathbogie. “Where is Strathbogie???” Goodness gracious me; it is just a dot between the Moorandah and the Hume Highways
.
I will never forget the drive into Strathbogie that first day. I took the dog for company and had arranged to meet the School Committee who organised a barbecue. Remember that the closest I had ever come to Country was to visit an Aunt's dairy farm in Victoria.
 
I bounced through the forest and observed Kangaroos; lots of holes in the road, huge amounts of dust floating around me and my little car zooming around bends the dimensions of I had never encountered before.  I stopped to look at the view.  Cheered myself with the observation that the view might make the whole exercise worthwhile. And then I pressed on till I came to a bridge and I could see a row of four houses.  And there was a hall.  In the middle of the road was a ram.  “Why would people put a ram
in the middle of the road?”
 
Then I saw it.  A small, very small, school.  With toilet block to the right and a group of people firing up a barbecue.  There was nothing behind the school just land. Later I found out it was a Golf Course.  The school was minute.  Two rooms with a galley kitchen and a store room.  Not even a lot of pegs.  I was educated at a huge school where there were more pegs in one class than this school displayed for its whole population of children. It was almost a culture shock. But the parents were delightful people.
 
Most of those people who welcomed me that day are still friends.  Being a small community they made me family.  But that took years to achieve. I arrived in Strathbogie with thirty years of home and family on board the removal van. I  had so much stuff that I had to ask one of the farmers to store some of it for me.  Now the laugh is that: it is still in his shearing shed.  I don’t even know what is there now.
 
Within weeks of arriving I knew I would love it.  Littlies being popped into the classroom for me to mind while the Mums worked in the kitchen or library. Such a surprise to turn from the board and find a two year old being nursed by someone. The armchair which was put in my classroom for me to relax in of an afternoon. The Preps soon learnt I was hearing reading and so they wandered in from next door and camped on my knee to rest and listen to the big kids read.
 
The big kids taught me twenty different ways to kill a snake.  My thanks to them.  I knew just what to do.  One little girl said “my Mum just beats them to death with the shovel”.  That is my preferred method.  I was invited to feed sheep off the back of tractors; view newborn sheep and foals and I renewed my love of Tennis.  Golf not so much.  Much too cold on the top of the Strathbogie Ranges in the Winter.  I think I became their new project.  It was called “make her welcome. She seems okay!”  And they did!
 
I came for five years. Then the plan was back to my beloved Melbourne. And that was twenty seven years ago. I built my career up here and now I am building my retirement. There is always a train to Melbourne if I get too homesick. That cures it!
 
A friend came to visit one day just after I arrived in Strathbogie.  He looked around, met the kids and then said as he left :”you're going to be great here”.  “I was just making sure you are okay”. And you know I was.
 
 
 
HELEN DUGGIN
25/2/2017