I’m not superstitious, but the number thirteen crops up remarkably often in my life. A lot of people dodge thirteen, consider it unlucky, but I think of it as my lucky number.
 
Firstly, I remember passing my last year 12 subject, Modern History, on 13th January, back in the days when the results came out in the daily paper (The Argus if I remember correctly.) I’d never been very fond of the subject and had a teacher who didn’t really make it an exciting subject.
 
I passed my driver’s licence on the 13th of March. I was so nervous. Cars back in the 60’s were manual, and traffic signals were given by hand, rain, hail or shine. The hand brake start was tested on the railway station ramp.  I had one of the strictest police in Benalla that day, with the reputation of regularly failing people.  All good!  I passed.
 
We were married on the 13th of February. It was a humid sticky day threatening to storm. However, it held off till the photos were taken outside the church and the last guests were inside the reception, then it bucketed down. Luckily it cleared by the time we came outside again.  It must have been a lucky day as we are still together after 60+ years.
 
Our first grandchild was born on a thirteenth, an emergency caesarean, and a healthy baby.
 
On our visit to USA, we went out to Grand Canyon.  On seeing helicopter flights available over the canyon, we decided it would be the best way to see it.  This was very exciting, having never been in one before. On alighting we did the touristy thing and had our photos taken beside the helicopter. On looking back at the photo later we were amazed to see it was Number 13. I bet a lot of people dodged that one!  Also, on the plane trip back to Vegas, we had seats 12, 13 and 14.
 
The only raffle I can remember winning was Number 13. It was at the first Camellia Society Christmas party.  Ray was asked to draw the winning ticket.  Imagine our embarrassment when he drew my ticket!
 
On a humorous note, a farming acquaintance of ours bought a new farm ute. His wife, a rather superstitious woman, warned him not to get 13 in the number plate. He duly arrived home with the new ute to be greeted with “I told you not to get 13 on the number plate”. It was ABC148, which added up to 13. I hope it didn’t bring them any bad luck!
​
 
Margaret Nelson
October 2022

I’ve always been interested in natural wonders of the world versus the man-made structures. I’ll happily go off the beaten track to look at a waterfall, or a unique rock formation, and often have been surprised by the beauty of these small things. I’ve seen Ayers Rock and the Olgas and been amazed by their changing beauty through the atmosphere of the day, and wondered at their formation many years ago. On my bucket list of places to visit were the Grand Canyon and Yosemite National Park in U.S.A. and to see for myself how incredible nature can be.
 
In 1999 our trip to USA gave us the opportunity to go out to the Grand Canyon. We flew from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, hired a car and travelled across desert country, towards Kingston, stopping briefly at Hoover Dam, to look at this fantastic man-made wonder.
 
Next day we went on to the canyon, and it certainly was up to our expectations, and more. 
 
On the way in we saw a sign for helicopter rides. We decided this would be the best way to see the Canyon and get some idea of its size.
 
Nothing prepared us for this birds’ eye view! Now we knew what the ravens hovering above us saw!  We were amazed by the scenery and colours, but the depth was unbelievable, towers of rock rose from the base like skyscrapers. A mile below the Colorado River looked like a little trickle of water. It seemed incredible that over 1000’s of years, the power of running water and wind had worn away a deep, mostly inaccessible canyon, a mile deep and approximately 300 miles long.  Besides being scenic, it was of great geological significance. Indian tribes had lived along it, fishing and hunting and growing crops. Gold prospectors had come and gone over the years, and now tourists flocked there.
 
Once on the ground, we took in the view from the rim, the far side, miles away, disappearing in blue haze. We ventured down the walking track leading to the bottom, a very steep track with ample signage warning of the dangers of heatstroke, and to carry water. It was a very warm spring day so we gave that idea away, but lots of people, on foot and on donkeys, were on their way down. I’ve always been fascinated by the Grand Canyon and its formation. I’ve seen soil erosion on a small scale, but this large-scale phenomenon intrigued me.
 
Later in our trip we visited Yosemite National Park, as serene, green and beautiful as the Grand Canyon was stark, arid, and rugged.  What a contrast. The grassy meadows, cool waterfalls cascading down from the valley walls into the sheltered park below and the peaceful Merced River. This was another wonder of nature, caused by glacial action carving out the valley over 1000‘s of years. It was a reminder of how very old this world is and that our lives are just a blink in time.

 
Margaret Nelson
October 2022

I came across an old ‘Benalta’, the Benalla High School magazine from the fifties.  I gazed at the photos of the prefects, house captains and sports teams, recognising many of them.  We looked so young—and we were! 
 
Where did all those young people go?  Did they have happy lives and fulfil their dreams? 
 
I looked at a photo of myself, a shy teenager.  Did I think then that one day I would be over eighty, still farming, feeding chooks, gardening, carting in wood, or that I would have four children and seven grandchildren?  No, our thoughts didn’t stretch that far ahead.  In fact, the year 2000 seemed too far away to even think about.
 
I looked at the others standing there in their uniforms.  Some I’d kept up contact with, others drifted away to work.  Sadly, some died young.  Many probably had achieved their dreams, in careers, sport and family life.  We caught up at reunions, but over the years the numbers dwindled with each successive meet.
 
Now our old Benalla High is in disrepair, probably beyond fixing, but in our minds, we can still see those rooms where we did science, maths or cookery, remember school sports, the House sports (and war cry), and the mischief we got up to.  There were socials in the old Memorial Hall, speech nights in the Town Hall.  The annual fete was held in the school grounds, especially the mannequin parade down the outside stairs to the quadrangle which always provided lots of laughs.
 
Thinking back, despite the times we found modern history boring, or the maths exams difficult, these were happy, care-free days.
 
Margaret Nelson
August 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

Margaret Nelson
​May 2022

My early years were spent on a farm, 5 miles out of Violet Town. The house was a fairly old weatherboard home, with a well-established garden and surrounding trees.  So, I probably took trees for granted. 

It was a large garden, full of fruit trees of all varieties. There were two huge lemon trees, and several varieties of oranges in amongst the flower gardens. Down along the back fence I remember a line of apple trees, old varieties that we don’t see these days.  I even remember their names--Johnathon, Cleopatra, Roman Beauty and Five Crown.  I especially liked the Johnathon, a sweet-fleshed apple.  There were peaches, pears, apricots, and several loquats. Nearer the house there were two large fig trees, big enough to climb in, and the canvas water-bag hung in their shady branches, to give us cold drinking water in the summer. Lots of fig jam was preserved.

The driveway at the front of the house was an avenue of sugar gums. They were a necessity on a farm for wood, for heating and cooking, as well as to provide shade for the working dog kennels. These trees were lopped regularly to give us wood and make a bushy canopy. Along the creek were red gums and grey box trees, some huge and very old.  Along Nalinga Road, on the way into town, I remember several eucalypts with canoe shapes cut from them, evidence that aboriginals once lived in the area.

Another tree that was often found around farms was the pepper tree, providing shade around sheep yards and in the paddocks. An attractive tree with hanging foliage and clusters of pink covered berries, and a strong peppery smell.  I particularly remember one, just outside our garden fence, where my brothers and I spent hours playing in summer.  It was a gigantic spreading tree and the soil underneath was loose from years of composting leaves.  We scraped roads for our toy trucks, heaped up dirt fences making paddocks for our sheep (dead Christmas beetles) and built miniature houses from old scraps of wood and broken bricks. I even pinched flowers from Mum’s garden to beautify our farm house gardens. We had built a small community under the tree, till Dad told us it was extending too far out from under the tree onto the driveway to the house gate. I’m sure Grandma was not very impressed with us crawling around in the dirt! There was also a swing suspended from a branch of this tree.  One of the joys of childhood was swinging to and fro and daydreaming!

On the bank of the creek stood a Cootamundra wattle. It was a picture in early spring, covered in fluffy, bright yellow blooms. I remember my bike being decorated with yellow crepe paper and wattle branches for a street parade, and I was decked out in a bright yellow dress with wattle in my hair. I don’t recall winning any prizes, but I’m sure I made an impact!

I have always loved trees, and in my later years yearned to paint trees like my idol Hans Heysen, but sadly my attempts were disappointing. I’ve planted many trees in the garden and the paddock and I was especially fond of Mallee eucalypts with their straggly trunks and large vivid flowers. These met with varying success, not many liked our soil type.
 
My latest ambition was to grow a Ginko tree, an ancient type of tree with maiden-hair fern like leaves.  I was delighted to find one at a market and found a place for it in the front yard.  I had the impression it might be a very slow growing, but I was amazed at its size after fourteen years.  It’s probably 20 feet high, a beautiful shape, and green and leafy now, before it turns a buttery yellow in autumn. I love the yellow carpet of leaves when they fall and am reluctant to rake them up.

Australia has beautiful trees, but a trip to California fulfilled my wish to see the tall coastal redwoods and the gigantic giant redwoods, which I have read are grown in parts of Victoria now.

It would be a dull world without trees.
​
 
Margaret Nelson
March 2022

Looking over the last year, COVID dominated our lives.  There were a lot of lows - not being able to visit family, my orphan calf dying after spending months caring for her.  The grandchildren missed having graduation ceremonies, presentation balls and birthday parties, not forgetting the little ones unable to socialise or play in the park after enduring months of home schooling.

However, the highs were numerous too.  We did spend Christmas in 2020 and 2021 together, having a brief break in lockdowns.  We did manage short trips between lockdowns to see friends.

It was a wetter than usual spring and summer, so we planted a vast vegetable garden.  It was a huge success and we picked peas and beans, tomatoes and cucumbers, squash and zucchini, and gave lots away.  The corn was amazing and parsnips, which are notoriously hard to germinate, thrived.

The spring flower garden was our best ever, the bottlebrushes were weighed down with red brushes, and the camellias flourished in the wetter, cooler conditions.  The iris garden which we had worked on for years was an amazing rainbow of pink, blue, purple, yellow and white.  I waited with interest to see how my newly purchased bi-color irises would grow.   Lots of photos were taken to remember this special season.

The pair of thrushes who have nested in a flower pot on top of the hot water service on the back verandah, hatched three chicks.  I was lucky enough to be watching the day they hopped on the lip of the pot and took their first precarious flight.  One made it to the garden shed roof, another got as far as the tree line beyond the back fence, but the third only made it to a bush close by.  It paused, recovered, and followed its mates.  Rain was threatening.  I worried about them out on their own.

The biggest high was at the end of lockdown when our two grandchildren from Melbourne arrived for a visit.  A five and seven year old who love the farm.  From the moment they walked in the door they were at home. 

Thomas had missed his birthday party and I had promised to make a birthday cake on their next visit.  On the way up his mother phoned to remind me, so I hastily made a marble cake, iced it with lashings of chocolate icing and sprinkles.  The cake blowing ceremony was held, seven candles on a separate cake (due to COVID rules), and a huge amount of cake devoured. 

The calves were inspected and the chook house visited in search of eggs.  Peas were ready to pick and pod.  They learned this quickly and were a great help.   

It was a lovely visit.  Caitlin summed it up beautifully by announcing that she was lucky because she had a home in Melbourne and a home in Benalla.


Margaret Nelson
February 2022

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

In our years of farming many dogs have passed through our front gate, --some memorable and others not. As any farmer will tell you a good dog will do the work of several men when it comes to mustering sheep. One such dog was Bluey, a German Koolie we owned for many years.

After doing our homework sussing out who had good working dogs, we settled on a pup from over near Horsham. The day Bluey arrived crutching was in full swing, so I got the job of driving into the Benalla railway station to pick up the pup. I anticipated a cuddly, furry puppy, but to my surprise Bluey was considerably older than that stage. He was a lanky, lightly built pup, blue merle in colour, with dark and white patches, and one wall eye,. (that is one eye had an area of blue in it) typical of the breed.

He was friendly and soon settled, and in no time he was showing interest in working sheep. He was a “natural” sheep dog, needing little training, anticipating where the sheep were to go, and very alert to the stragglers that stray away from the mob. He became very talented at manouvering sheep, even at times bringing two mobs up to the yards while keeping them separate. He seemed to have incredible eye sight, spotting a stray sheep a long way off in long grass or amongst trees. Ray worked him by whistling and brief commands, but he would work for anyone (or rather he would work them) The locals referred to him as The Professor because he always knew what was wanted.

​One of my memorable experiences was at shearing time. I was asked to put two mobs together, take them out onto the road, and turn them right to a hill paddock to dry the them for the next weeks shearing. I couldn’t whistle , so I gave command by calling out instructions and pointing and usually this worked. However Bluey didn’t like the idea of boxing two mobs together, and did his best to keep them separate till they got to the roadway gate. Here I intended to take them right, instead of left to the sheep yards. This really confused Bluey! The look on his face said, ”This is wrong. The Boss wont be happy with this!”

After much yelling and pointing he reluctantly put the two mobs together and took them right. He thought I was doing the wrong thing and there would be big trouble when we got home.

He loved riding on the quad bike, the back of the ute, and even better, in the cab if he was allowed. He hated possums, there was one living up in the rafters of the shed, and at the mention of the word ‘possum” he would bristle and growl.

Over the years he sired many litters of pups, who all seemed to have his best traits. Pups were sent to all states of Australia to work sheep, muster cattle and even to round up ducks and poultry. It was incredible how word travelled of a good dog. Even years after Bluey died we were getting phone calls requesting pups of Bluey’s strain.

He lived to an old age for a dog, becoming arthritic and slower, spending a lot of time sleeping on the mat on the back verandah. Possibly he was dreaming of rounding up sheep, or perhaps catching that possum.


Marg Nelson
​September, 2021

Most of us, at some time in our lives, have been served a “curved ball”. Something happens unexpectedly that upsets our daily routine and can change our lives. My “curved ball “ came in the form of a severe back problem, which made me appreciate what I had, and gave me time to think about coping with the future in a different way.

The first sign of a problem was when I first stepped out of bed in the morning and momentarily a severe pain would travel down my leg. Over the weeks the pain worsened, lasted longer and settled in my lower back. Alarm bells sounded loud and clear when I blacked out from the pain one night, landing on the hard board floor of the hallway

X-rays and scans showed very little amiss—some deterioration in my spine consistant with my age, but no bulging discs or anything serious.  It's possibly sciatica I was told, so I saw a physiotherapist and faithfully did exercises for some weeks with no results. The pain had increased to something like an electric shock whenever I moved my leg, and the pain remained for a long time after. I’d had back problems before but a few days rest usually solved the problem. I spent long hours on the bed, gazing out the window at the Liquid Amber changing from green to gold to dark red, and the leaves drifting down to the lawn and driveway.  
                                                                                          
At that stage I was quite accepting of the problem, thinking one day I’d wake up and things would be improving. Grocery shopping was becoming more difficult.  I’d get Ray to take me later at night. I would hobble around using a walking stick and we’d fill our trolley. Cooking was another trial. I would sit at the bench on my walking frame and prepare, then wheel across to the stove to sit and cook. One day I was angry.  I phoned the doctor and said I wanted to see an  orthopaedic surgeon. His response was “You don’t really want an operation at your age”.   I wanted to be pain-free though!   
                              
Help came from out of the blue!  Ray had an appointment with his rheumatologist, who asked why he was alone that day.  When told of my problems he sent up a referral for an MRI , and said he would see if he could help. By this stage I was in a lot of pain. A walk into the hospital really drained me, and I was happy to collapse into a wheelchair.  I was very nervous about having a MRI. It was a daunting experience for someone who is claustrophobic.  Being short, the huge machine seemed to swallow me, my nose almost touching its ceiling. The noise was incredible, as if  I was in a box and the lid was being nailed down. I fought panic for 20 minutes!
                                                       
In a few days I knew the worst - only an operation would fix the problem.  The vertebrae in my lower spine had collapsed on a nerve, hence the leg pain. I was sent to an orthopaedic surgeon at Epworth hospital for the complicated operation of chipping away bone to release the nerve, and having metal inserted between the vertebrae and either side of the spine. Because a bone graft had been used I wasn’t to twist, turn or lift anything for 3-4 months, and was to wear a brace whenever I was out of bed. 
                                                   
I woke from the operation in a warm, fuzzy morphine haze, pain free. I don’t recall very much about the next few days except nurses frequently rolling me over!  The only rehabilitation was to walk and, after my brace was fitted, I walked as far as I could each day. By the end of the week I could do four rounds of the floor every day, the requirement to allow me to go home.. 
                                                                                                                                   
Recovery was frustrating at times, but it taught me patience, and the necessity to ask for help.  After all, three months out of my life wasn’t that long! The housework and garden could wait, and a little dust wouldn't hurt anyone. 

If this problem had happened 50 years ago, what would the  outcome have been?

Perhaps it takes a “curved ball" to wake us up to how lucky we really are.


Margaret Nelson
August 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

In the 1970’s we moved to our farm at Tarnook, about 15 km west of Benalla.  Tarnook was known for its gravelly hills, rather unkindly I thought, as I would have described it as undulating country, with some gravelly rises and nice flats in between.

We ploughed a hilly paddock with intentions of sowing oats. We realised that ploughing this previously  untouched country would bring up stones and rocks galore, but not as many as we could see in front of us now. The size of the rocks didn’t lend themselves to a mechanical stone-picker, which we didn’t have anyway, so the  only option was the human kind of stone picker—us! The problem was do we start this, or put it in the “too hard basket”? We decided we’d do it ourselves with the help of our kids, and some paid help.  Who wants to pick up rocks at any price? 
                      
After the first few days we realised  what a daunting task we’d taken on, but we had to continue.That old saying  “No pain, no gain” haunted us, especially at the end of the afternoon.
   
We used a Fergie tractor and trailer, which mostly I drove, while the others tossed rocks onto it. Up and down the paddock until it was loaded, then up to the top of the hill where we all unloaded it, drank a well deserved cuppa of thermos tea and renewed our energy with biscuits or scones,  if I'd had time to cook.  The pile of rocks and stones grew steadily. Some nights I had dreams of driving that tractor!
                     
Eventually the paddock looked reasonably stone-free (that is of the larger stones), the oats were sown and a good crop was grown. Next year more ploughing brought up more stones, but  the second year of rock-picking was easier, and the land looked so much better.
​                                             
Our rock heap on top of the hill was huge and could been seen  from a long way off, a monument to our hard work!  I don’t doubt the neighbours said the Nelsons had lost the plot, but we had no regrets about not putting it in the “too hard basket”!  We had a vastly improved paddock.

Margaret Nelson
​March 2021

​In May 1999 we visited our daughter in California. Helen, an Occupational Therapist, had left Australia to work in the United States for one year, but had stayed five years.  We had just sold our farm and decided to take the opportunity to see what was so wonderful about the USA that had kept her there. We soon found out!

A highlight of our trip was a drive up the west coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco and on to Yosemite National Park. Helen decided to take time off and drive us. The west coast was beautiful, similar to our Great Ocean Road, and San Francisco was eye opening, especially the Golden Gate Bridge and nearby Muir Wood, but nothing prepared us for the beauty of Yosemite National Park.

Our first glimpse was of a waterfall in the distance, looking back through a steep valley in the mountains. Yosemite is part of the Sierra Nevada Range—varying from 2000ft to 13000 ft above sea level.  The park includes alpine wilderness, groves of giant sequoia (red woods), and a long valley caused by thousands of years of weathering and erosion due to glacial action. Rugged peaks and huge round granite domes were formed, and waterfalls and lakes, amid wide meadows and pine forests.

We arrived in brilliant sunshine and everything looked spectacular. After we settled into our room we went looking around, noting all the interesting tracks and the little museums devoted to the culture of the Indian tribe that had been the original inhabitants of the area. Also intriguing to me were the displays of photographs taken by Ansell Adams documenting the changes to the Park.

The next day was overcast with very light rain, but that didn’t deter us from roaming round the many tracks and visiting lakes and waterfalls. We were amazed by the huge Half Dome with the sheer vertical face which attracts dare-devil rock climbers, and El Capitan, formed by glacial action, and one of the largest monoliths in the world. We felt so small standing at their base and gazing up at them, feeling that our life time was a mere blink in time!

There must have been thousands of people in the Park, yet they were not noticeable, there was a feeling that we were almost alone. Even the lodges were hardly noticeable tucked away behind trees. We stayed in a lodge at the base of Yosemite falls, the highest in the park. Notices warning guests not to leave any evidence of food in their cars were everywhere, with photos of bears breaking into cars, ripping out windows and seats, to get to food. We did an expert job of picking up every sesame seed that had fallen off our bread rolls.

During that night I had vague recollections of loud thumps and crashes. At daylight I raced over to the window and was amazed to see snow everywhere. The noise had been snow and ice crashing down the waterfall. Snow on the granite peaks made the view even more spectacular, and the dogwoods blooming in the snow so pretty.

From here we moved down to the Mariposa Grove, the home of the world renowned giant sequoia. I'm sure these looked even grander covered in snow.

A story I was reading brought back memories of swagmen. They were men who travelled from town to town, carrying their belongings in a swag (or bed roll). Mostly they were victims of circumstances, such the depression of the 30’s, men who couldn’t find work after the war, or even running from the law. There was no dole then, so they were mostly dependent on the generosity of people.
                                   
I remember swaggies coming to our farm, I don’t remember them coming to the door, though usually the dogs made such a racket they waited outside the yard. There was one man in particular who turned up regularly, known as Mr. Flannigan. I remember seeing him standing there with his swag  slung from his shoulder and his black billy and tin mug. Mum always made him sandwiches with meat if it was available, filled his billy with tea, and gave him extra tea leaves, salt, sugar and flour. Sometimes they cut some wood, but Mum usually didn't take up this offer. After he went on his way, I’m sure she went to the party-line phone to alert the neighbours that he was headed their direction. One swaggie surprised us with a request for boot polish.  We found out later that it made a potent drink when mixed with methylated spirits.                                                                                                                                         
The swagmen mostly went from farm to farm, dodging towns as the police moved them on.  I do remember another swaggie who regularly came into Violet Town, known as Farmer Hill.  A tall thin man with long flowing hair, he was always bare footed, even in winter. I was a little scared of him!  
                  
The swaggies were harmless, but the gypsies were another kettle of fish. They arrived in big cars, the women in long dresses with large pockets, and entered the shops in groups, with some men distracting the shopkeepers while the women looked around, fingering goods and pocketing some. Their visits were not welcome!  However the swagmen were tolerated and fed.

Margaret Nelson
​November 2020                   

​It happened on a sultry,cloudy afternoon. We sat on the back verandah considering if it was going to rain, or if it was worthwhile going out to weed the garden. Out of the blue came  the brightest flash of lightning, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder, the loudest I’ve ever heard. I darted for the door! I’ve had an unreasonable fear of thunderstorms since I was small, and we slept in our wired-in  verandah in summer, often enduring summer storms.

The lightning felt so close we thought the house may have been hit.  But there was no smell of burning, and the phone was still working, in fact it was ringing. Our worst nightmare was confirmed—a neighbour was calling to tell us our hayshed was alight. Our shed full of large clover hay rolls.

The lightning had struck an old pine tree, causing it to explode,  sending branches far and wide, but worse, the lightning had  raced across the ground in three directions. One lit a small grass fire, another went toward our neighbour’s shed leaving a mark on the wall, and the third travelled about 100 metres to the end of our hayshed, igniting the end bales.

We had that sinking feeling that it would be very hard to extinguish, and we were right! The fire truck seemed to take ages to arrive,  having  gone to another lane with a similar name. Fences needed to be cut, and everything seemed to be in slow motion, except the fire which raced up the side of the stack, and into the gap between the hay and shed roof. This acted as a wind  tunnel that sucked the flames through,  and spread the fire rapidly. We could only stand by and watch helplessly. The bales had to be dragged out and saturated with water and detergent to extinguish them, which sadly rendered them useless for cattle feed.   
                                                                                                                                                          Next morning as we surveyed the sodden hay and twisted metal of the shed it gave me a small inkling of how people must have felt after bush fires ravaged their houses and property. I wondered how they coped with so much loss, and mess to clean up. Ours was insured, but losing your home and possessions must be soul destroying, even if it is insured.

Strange how something happening ‘out of the blue’ can cause so much damage!


Margaret Nelson
​September 2020

I am looking at a sepia photo of an old woman, wearing an apron, watching three children climbing on the veranda rail.  She is our Nana Pascoe, photographed with my younger brothers and myself, at the front of her house in Lily Street.  It must have been one of the earliest houses in Violet Town, as it is built on the very corner of the block, with a step down from the veranda onto the footpath. Perhaps it had been a shop in earlier times.

I can still visualise that house and yard. To a child the garden seemed so big, with a chook run and woodshed far away on the back fence. The house was small and rather dark, with a detached bathroom and bedroom.  The kitchen opened onto a veranda which housed a Coolgardie safe, a table, Pa’s chair - where he read the paper and smoked his pipe - and a huge plant stand.

The kitchen was very homely, with a black wood stove, a huge black kettle and Mrs Potts’ irons. As children, we loved to go there after school to eat Nana’s endless supply of Gingernut biscuits and make Milo with hot water and condensed milk. Having no refrigerator, the local dairyman, Foster Mackrell, delivered milk several days a week. I remember him riding his huge horse along the side of the house, picking up the billy hanging on the gate, and delivering milk back when he returned the cows to the paddock.

Early photos show Nana as a pretty, petite girl with dark curly hair and dark eyes, but I think she had quite a hard life.  Pa was away a lot working at road building or farm labouring and she raised the children mostly alone.

When my mother was born, Nana Pascoe was over 40, considered a dangerous age to have a baby. She haemorrhaged badly and had to be taken to Wangaratta Hospital by train (no ambulances in Violet Town). To get her to the train, she was put in a cart and several men took the shafts and carefully pulled it to the station.  Times have changed since then!

Later in life Nana slipped and fell, hurting her hip badly. She bravely carried on, refusing to see a doctor, relying on her Bex tablets and making a makeshift crutch from a broom.

Toward the end of her life a burst ulcer in one eye resulting in the removal of that eye, while the remaining eye had a cataract. Her near blindness was difficult, but she did not complain. I clearly remember the day I took Ray along to meet her. To his embarrassment, she pulled him over closer to her, looked him over, and declared he would suit Margaret!

We regularly had Sunday lunch with Nana and Pa Pascoe. I really enjoyed the simple meals of cold corned meat and salad or vegies, followed by fruit and custard, or nana’s plum jam tart (we called it “stone jam”) on the back veranda in summer. Mum would sometimes send us down the street for a Family Brick” of ice-cream.
​
I realise now that Nana Pascoe suffered a lot of pain, but I never remember her complaining or being cross.  We were so lucky to have her till she was 84, setting such an example to us.
 
Margaret Nelson
July 2020

I grew up in the war years. 
 
I was born in Violet Town Bush Nursing hospital in January 1939, the year World War II began. It was an extremely hot year in Victoria with bad fires that January, extending from Narbethong to Powelltown, causing much loss of property and lives. Mum told of smoke hanging over the town for days, stinging the eyes and even tainting the tank water. In February there was a substantial rain that caused floods.
 
Kensay Park, our farm, approximately 5 miles from Violet Town, was bought by Grandad Earnest King in 1933. The house, built on the banks of the 3 Mile Creek, was  a 4-bedroom weatherboard house with a large front verandah which was later fly wired in.
 
There was no electricity.  Hot water was provided by a cast iron fountain on the side of the black wood stove for dish washing and baths.  A copper was lit on wash days and clothes boiled or hand washed, then wound through a wringer and hung on a long line out on the bank of the creek. There was water laid on to the bathroom, laundry and a tap low on the wall in the kitchen. Washing up was done in a tin dish on the kitchen table and drained on a tray.  The stainless-steel sink followed much later, as did the slow combustion stove with hot water service.  Mum’s first washing machine was a Lightburn, closely resembling a concrete mixer.  Water still had to be ladled into the machine and clothes lifted into a spin dryer, but it was a vast improvement on lifting clothes from the boiling copper to the trough and pushing through hand wringer.  Water was scarce, so it was recycled to the garden.
 
Mum must have found it difficult with a small baby! There was no electricity, so no fan or air con- conditioner, but I survived!  There was no refrigerator.  A Coolgardie safe (cooled by damp bags draped on the sides) kept meat and milk fresh for a limited time, but butter was always runny in summer and jellies out of the question. A kerosene refrigerator came much later and was a great help. Grandma King sometimes made ice cream, a real treat served with her home-grown strawberries.
 
Our means of transport was a green Bedford truck, a lidded box on the back for groceries bought every 1-2 weeks.  Dad had a large vegetable garden with lots of fruit trees.  I remember apples, apricots, peaches, pears and apricots, which mum bottled and made into jam. There were two large fig trees, big enough to climb, and well-watered from the bathroom drain. Fig jam was my favourite. Water was pumped from the big hole in the creek, so we had home-grown vegies most of the year. Tomatoes were bottled, made into sauce and relish for later.  Beans were sliced and salted in a large earthen ware jars (but not as nice as fresh).
 
It was a quiet childhood, perhaps a bit lonely, as my brothers were a fair bit younger, but there were pet lambs, farm dogs and a pet rabbit till it escaped. I didn’t have children nearby to play with, so I learned to use my imagination and play with dolls and draw on any available scrap of paper.
I only have a vague memory of the war years, but understood my parents were worried about it. Mum had a soldier brother in Darwin who she often wrote to. Blinds were drawn at night, extended shade on lights and limited lights on vehicles, so towns were not so visible from the air.  A rather exaggerated precaution for our part of the world!  Night driving was hazardous on windy wet roads, especially in winter, when they were muddy and slippery.
                                                                                                    
As there were no school buses, when I got to school age, I did correspondence school at home. In 1945 when I turned 6, I stayed with my grandparents in Violet Town during the week.  School was a new experience. I was like a small fish in a large pond, not knowing many children. I was put straight into Grade 2, where I was a year younger than the others.   I found settling in hard, being a shy, anxious child away from home.  I’m sure Grandma King did her best, but having had boys, a little girl was a challenge. Unfortunately, I broke my arm at Easter and, after time away, had to settle in again. By grade 3 I was happier.  I had received a green Malvern Star bike for Christmas, and I could ride around to visit my other grandparents. Violet Town was a very quiet and safe town in the 40’s.
 
In 1945 the war ended.  I remember the day well. Mum and Dad came into town for lunch, it was a holiday. The school bell rang constantly, and I sneaked over for a turn at ringing it! I remember an impromptu parade of young people around the town on bikes. The older people seemed relieved.
Things gradually returned to normal, the rationing gradually stopped. We hadn’t been greatly affected by it, as we had plenty of home killed meat, rabbits, milk and butter and our vegetables. Fuel and clothing tickets were barely sufficient, but a lot of swapping went on.
                    
I do remember that after the war we got a new tractor and the old draft horses, Queenie and Violet were put out to rest.
 
A new era had commenced.
 
 
Margaret Nelson
June 2020
 

In 1976 we moved from Winton to Tarnook, west of Benalla. It was a bare area, so we had to build a house, sheds, set up a water supply and establish a garden. The soil on the whole was gravelly, so good soil had to be carted in for the vegetable garden firstly, and then my flower garden. We made built up gardens surrounded by rocks, which were plentiful.

It was the era when native shrubs were popular, so they featured heavily in the garden.  However looking over the farm, it was fairly treeless.  Tarnook had been reasonably tree covered in the early years, but grey box, red box and red gum were excellent firewood.  They were cut down then transported to Baddaginnie railway yard, to be railed to Melbourne to warm the houses and fire the stoves. In the early part of the century, farms in that area were small, families surviving on dairying and small flocks of animals. The trees were cut for wood to supplement their meagre income. Mostly the stumps were left in the ground.

Firstly, the stumps had to be knocked out, heaped up and burnt.  Then we had to decide what trees to plant, where, and how to protect them till they were a reasonable height. Protection is vital in the early years, so many pests to destroy them.  We had sheep, but rabbits and hares can also cause a lot of damage.

We decided on tree guards made from 44 gallon drums with top and bottom removed, and some fenced in tree lots for windbreaks.  Next decision was where to plant. Some trees were to be planted in groups on the top of hills, others to follow along the gullies, and some around dams for shelter as well as being pleasing to look at.

Next decision was what to plant.  Obviously those native to the area would have to be used, but we decided to experiment with other varieties as well.  Seedling trees were expensive.  We needed hundreds, so we collected seeds and grew a lot ourselves.

Trees were a new language – with botanical names and common names. We bought books and studied the soil types needed by different trees. However, there was not much choice at gravelly Tarnook.

We really enjoyed our planting days - family affairs, with stops for tea and eats.  In summer, watering was necessary.  Forty-four gallon drums on the back of the ute were filled with water and, armed with buckets, we did the rounds.  We had several nasty surprises, especially when a huge red belly black snake objected to water being tipped in his tree guard drum.  We dropped the buckets and literally flew up onto the back of the ute!  On another occasion a cat was in a drum and flew out and gave us a fright.   

It was a learning experience.  Some trees flourished.  Some didn’t survive the frosty winters, especially the scented gums.  Some blue gums did well, but mallee trees didn’t.

Twenty years down the track, when we sold the farm, most of the trees looked well and certainly added to the value of it.  There were successes and failures.  The years weren’t always kind, droughts took their toll and windstorms did damage.
​
We were proud of our planting.  There is something very satisfying in planting a tree that may be there after we are gone. 
 
Margaret Nelson
May 25, 2020

They shall not grow old, as we that are left to grow old.
                                                                                   
Age shall not weary them, nor  the  years condemn                                                                         
​At the going down of the sun, and in the morning 
​                                                                        
We will remember them. ​

Laurence Binyon

Laurence Binyon's poem sums up the spirit of ANZAC.   Celebrated on April 25th, Anzac Day is the anniversary of the first major battle fought by Australian and New Zealand forces.  It commemorates  the  landing at Gallipoli Peninsular in Turkey where the soldiers hoped to capture Constantinople, the capital of the Ottoman empire and an ally of Germany.

As the ANZACS landed they met fierce fighting from the Turks. Both sides suffered huge losses, Australia lost 8000 men. Many of these were young lads, so keen to go to war, they had put up their ages  to enlist. To them,  war and defending their country was a big adventure - little  did they know of the tough conditions ahead, living in trenches, enduring cold wet conditions or heat and dust, not to mention diseases.  I remember my grandmother having a photo of four lads from one family in uniform (her cousins), I don’t know if they all returned.

On ANZAC day we commemorate the lives of not only  Australians and New Zealand soldiers who fought in 1914-18 war, but  WW2, Korea, Vietnam and Afghanistan veterans who have given their lives for their country.

Services are held in every town, in their Memorial Halls or other memorials, wreaths are laid and soldiers march. In Violet Town we always had a service with representatives from returned soldiers and local churches. The services always followed the same order - hymns and prayers, wreath laying, a minutes silence and the haunting last post and the rousing reveille, and always our national anthem. Red poppies and rosemary, which grew wild on the Gallipoli Peninsula, formed part of the ceremony.

When in Melbourne I attended the Shrine commemoration.  It was very moving and impressive, with large numbers in attendance to see the returned soldiers march up St Kilda Road.

For the first time, this year there were no public services due to COVID19, but lots of informal street  observances  of the  occasion, and TV services without attendees.  We have not forgotten, and the youth of our country will carry on the tradition. 

Lest we forget.


Margaret Nelson
April 25 2020

"If Only" is said to be the saddest words in the world.  How often we have used them!  If only we hadn't done that, or if only we hadn't said that, or if only we had tried harder.  There are so many instances.  I guess on the spur of the moment we just don't think ahead.

On a brighter note--my "if only" is regret that I didn't ask my parents and grandparents more about our family history.  Perhaps it takes till old age to become so interested in the past.  I was in my early twenties when my grandparents passed away, and at that stage, not very interested in history.  I had spent a lot of time with my grandparents, especially my grandmothers, heard them talk about their siblings, and probably met a few of them when they visited.  No I look at old photos and wonder who they are.

Now I wonder about their youth--their schooling, their entertainment and social life.  They were big families, one grandmother was one of eleven.  How did they cope?  Farms were small.  They were the pioneers in their district, clearing mallee scrub and ploughing the stoney limestone country.  There must have been times when food was scarce!

Looking at the old family wedding photos, I am intrigued with the women's dresses.  Their clothes were beautiful.  How did they manage that?  Were these hand-me-downs or was there a talented seamstress in the family?  I know my grandmother was very good at crocheting. 

If only I had asked more questions.


Margaret Nelson
​September 1919