When I was young the seasons seemed to be more pronounced. This was because the years were longer than they are now. In late middle age we go from Christmas to Christmas and they seem to be about two months apart.

​In my childhood we had winter each year. It rained more than now. We had a flood every year. The river always flooded and we would have water up to our back door. The actual river was approximately a mile from the house but when it flooded it was obvious that in previous times the river had changed its course a number of times. There were three ancient rivers between us and the river. When it flooded the river resumed its old ways. The river itself flowed close to a large hill and when it flooded you could see that it burst through the narrowing as it ran into the hill. The water took on a life of its own.

I liked the fact that we had a flood every year. We were sometimes surrounded by water and we were cut off.  School was off for a day or two. But life hardly changed. It only became more  interesting. The cows would congregate on a temporary island surrounded by water. They were never in any danger. They knew what to do and still came home to be milked. They would walk through water to do this. Water holes would all fill up when the creeks and ancient water courses flowed with water. Rabbits would be trapped out of their burrows and were easy targets for dogs. They were easily caught if they attempted to swim away.

I can only remember it being cold once. We had a neighbour visiting us and my mother had prepared a hot water bottle for bed. The neighbour made fun of me for having to have a hot water bottle. What was I - a man or a mouse. Of course it must have been cold. The puddles on the road froze up. If you were skilled you could skid your bike across the ice. Your back wheel.

Undoubtedly we had summers but I cannot remember being hot. We once had a bush fire but I didn't feel unsafe. The fire came towards us and it was like watching water flowing from tree to tree. It didn't seem to move very quickly. I watched from a distance. I had no sense of it being hot. I do remember the noise of cicadas on overcast muggy days. They made a loud noise that went on for some days. They were probably there because the winters flood had made conditions that suited them. Alas we no longer have the pleasure of hearing cicadas.

As we grew up we enjoyed the summer more. You could go swimming every day. We had large water holes full of water we could play in. One hole was rumoured to be bottomless. It never dried up. I built a raft for this hole. I remember the sweat pouring off me as I worked in the corrugated iron shed attaching the four gallon drums to the wooden slats.

My cousin  - recently deceased - would come to visit. I liked it when he came. We did lots of good things. We spent a lot of time on the raft. He was once on the raft in the middle of the water hole when he spied a large very dangerous looking insect in the water. It frightened him and he came out immediately.

Later on when we were in our early teens I was able to stay at his place one wonderful summer. He had been given a Jersey heifer as a pet and he had trained this heifer to act like a horse. He rode it everywhere. We rode it everywhere. It could carry more than one child. He lived near the river as well and the heifer would take us to the river and when asked carry us into the river. This was great fun. I cannot recall it ever being oppressively hot.

One notable thing happened when I was there. I rebelled against my mother.  I had a haircut. My cousin's father took us to the barber and I was asked if I would like a haircut. I said yes please. I was always asking for a certain type of popular haircut but my mother would never allow it. When it came time to go home and my mother came to get me I had the popular haircut and she was not happy. I wasn’t allowed to stay there again.

In adult life the seasons have changed. For the past twenty years or so we have lived with an extended drought. In drought times we go from a dry winter to a dry summer. There is no spring or autumn. This is disappointing. I do enjoy the winter more than the summer however. We have a winter house that has proper insulation in the walls and the windows are all double glazed. We have a large wood heater that spreads a comfortable warmth through the whole house.


Neville Gibb
February 2023

Obituary of Heather

As an unofficial historian I would like to try and give an essence of Heather.

Heather was always optimistic.  Tolerant of human beings, she didn’t judge people harshly. Well not openly, out loud. She was friendly to a large proportion of the population.

In turn, Heather was liked by most people who met her. She had a fairly full social life, belonged to many groups and fitted well into the wider community. She would have had a mitigating effect if any of her groups showed signs of extreme behaviour. Always quick to laugh, she could always easily defuse a tricky situation.

Heather started life living in a house the King Valley side of the cutting. This was quite a crude house. It did not enjoy many amenities. The inside was not fully lined. It had a limited supply of cold water. Heather enjoyed living here. This house is nestled in between the River and the Hill.  It is close to both. She claimed she could go into the bush whenever she wanted. She might have done this in secret. But most likely she would have done it with her siblings and relatives, of which she had lots.

In time her family moved about two miles down the road to the house that is still in the family. This house was on 30 acres and close to the river. You could always hear the river at night. A clearing sale was held on the day they moved in. They had already purchased the property. The clearing sale was in the afternoon. They slept in the house that night. They had to move quickly because there were 20 cows to be milked twice every day. The cows came with the property. In time they also kept pigs. The pigs were the responsibility of Heather’s mother.  Both her mother and father milked the cows, but her father worked off the farm as much as possible as an agricultural labourer or casual worker in industry.

Heather’s Father was Scottish. His name was Tom. He came from Paisley. Tom wasn’t hollywood Scottish. He never wore a kilt. He admitted however to having a connection with Robbie Burns and his family had kept intact a pair of Burn’s breeks. Tom had had a privileged upbringing until the time his mother broke with his father. The father was a serious drinker and was inclined to go on benders which lasted sometimes for weeks. Tom’s sympathies were with his mother. The family breakup however meant Tom’s life changed forever. The business which gave them a comfortable living came to an abrupt end. Tom had to leave school before school leaving age and get a job. In later life he would recall in detail how much he had loved school and how much he missed school. How he sometimes would stand outside the school and watch the pupils going in. Tom could quote Shakespeare. He could quote Wordsworth. Tom’s family did not get back together and in time it was decided that he would come to Australia and join his relatives in the King Valley. He came to Melbourne by boat and then train to King Valley. He claimed the train journey from Wangaratta to King Valley lasted approximately the same time as the journey from Melbourne to Wangaratta. The train stopped at all 12 stations. Sometimes for an hour.

Heather’s mother belonged to a musical family. Her name was Edith, but she was called Edie. There was a Laffy family band composed of Edie’s father, two brothers, and sister, but Edie never sang with the band. She sang solo songs which highlighted her voice. Her singing career went on long after the Laffy family band split up. She would often be asked to sing at public occasions. She would sometimes take part in talent quests run by the local radio station. All her relatives and friends would listen with interest when this happened. A vinyl record was made of one of her appearances.

Heather did not always get on with her mother. She once ran away from home, or more correctly rode away on her bike. She took refuge with her Aunt and came extolling a list of complaints. The middle verandah had to be swept. The kitchen floor needed to be washed. The beds had to be made and she was expected to do it all. Quickly, however, Edie was notified, and the conversation turned to how fast Heather had ridden. She had travelled 8 miles in an hour. How fast was she going?

Heather had a full working life until she got married and she then became a full-time housewife. She was good at this occupation. Excelled at it even. She got on well with her husband David and in time they raised two well-adjusted children. David and Heather had many adventures. David had several careers in various industries. Heather always supported him. It can be stated that Heather and David were soul mates. They appreciated each other in the deepest sense. If any marriage can be described as successful, then theirs can. This wasn’t all David’s fault. Heather had a hand in it as well.

In late middle age during a bout of illness Heather gave up smoking cold turkey. She had been a reasonably heavy smoker quite attached to the joys of smoking. She was never tempted to revert.

Heather was always generous to her relatives and friends. She always welcomed people to visit, was always accommodating if people wanted a meal or to stay the night. This was her strength. It was not always openly appreciated but it was always understood. It’s a cliché, but if anyone was generous to a fault, then Heather would qualify…
 
Neville Gibb
October 2022

I have always had a bucket list sitting in the back of my consciousness.

As I get older my bucket list has maybe shortened. But essentially it has stayed the same.

Although a bucket list is always nebulous and can always be subject to change when I was younger my bucket list was almost endless. I wanted to do so many things.

I wanted to do things. Just do things. I wanted to get away from where I was. I wanted to be able to do anything I wanted.

I wanted to travel to exotic places. I wanted to meet exotic people. I wanted to eat exotic food. I wanted to experience exotic adventures.  I wanted to see interesting places.

I wanted to live in London.

I wanted to live for one whole winter in Vienna and be able to go to concerts and the opera whenever I wanted.

I wanted to have a successful career. I wanted to have an interesting job. I wanted to work with interesting people.

I wanted to have a stable domestic life. I wanted to have a happy home. I wanted to have many friends.

I wanted to be talented at something. I wanted to be good at things. Maybe two or more things.

I wanted to be good at sport. I wanted to be able to run well. I wanted to be able to play football. I wanted to be a respected spin bowler. I wanted to be part of a team.

I wanted to have a pet kangaroo who loved me. One who lived inside and slept on the couch.

I wanted to be able to sing opera. I wanted to be able to write music. I wanted to be able to sight read music. I wanted to be able to play the violin in an orchestra.

I wanted to be able to write. I wanted to be a good writer. I wanted to write something that others found interesting. I wanted to write novels.

I wanted to be able to relax and enjoy myself. I wanted to feel contented.

I wanted to be respected by people I respected. I wanted to feel some connection to people I admired.

I wanted to know more people. I wanted to have lots of friends.

I wanted to watch more interesting tv. I wanted to work for the BBC.

I wanted to belong to some important group. I wanted to have  influence in some public issue.

I wanted to be free. I wanted to be beholding to no one. I wanted to be confident enough to say anything.


Neville Gibb
​September 2022

I will start by stating that all living creatures on our planet Earth are derived from the one life source. All life on earth has a common ancestor. This includes all animals and all plants. We are all programmed by the same DNA structure. It is interesting to speculate just when plant and animal diverged. I would suspect that this happened when life was deep underwater, but nevertheless at one point plants and animal were enclosed in the same body. The trees are our cousins. We should feel sympathy with all plants.

I grew up in a farming community where trees were not seen as friends. Trees stopped grass growing and cows needed to eat grass. Crops were affected by the presence of trees. You could not plough under trees. When Europeans took up the land to farm in the 19th century the first thing they did was to clear the land of trees. My father's generation was finishing off the job. If we did not cut down trees we ringbarked them. This was often seen as a relaxing past time.

It has to be said that at this time I had little interest in trees. My father once planted some pinus radiatas, but when they all died he did not try again. He took me with him when he planted them. I must have been 3 or 4 years old. He was affected by the beliefs of his peer group and I went along with him. He never again planted any tree on his farm.

Towards the end of the 20th century human thinking began to change and trees were again looked on with favour. It was conceded that at the very least trees contributed to the health of the dirt itself and that trees recycled carbon dioxide and contributed to the level of oxygen in the air. There were some government initiatives which encouraged people to grow trees. There were schemes which offered tax incentives to set up tree plantations. However only a very small percentage of farmers were persuaded to plant trees and it was left to governments to plant trees on crown land. But the Green movement slowly gained influence and by the second decade of the 21st century certain protections were afforded to trees. They are now seen as valuable and have to be protected.

I myself never thought much about the Green Movement until it started being disapproved of by my father and his peer group. I started to experiment in planting some trees on his farm. He did not object but neither did he ever take much interest. He never stopped any animal from eating any tree I had planted. He never expressed any regret that whatever I had planted had died. But he did not stop me and I believe in time he grudgingly accepted that trees at least provided shade for cows.

I became interested in the many species that were native to Australia. I also kept in mind that some exotic plants could be more attractive than native species. As I grew older I became more interested. Eventually it became an ambition to acquire land where I could revitalise and revegetate. My overall desire was gain control of some land and to return that land to its pristine state.

At the end of what seemed a long journey my wife and I were able to purchase 150 acres of fairly barren land and I set about putting my ambitions into place. I started planting trees. I did have some help from friends. I did have help from a government scheme. But I did most of the planting myself and we eventually planted approx 12000 trees. I sometimes conscripted my children into helping me but they were reluctant to dig into ground that was comparable to concrete. And they had to carry water over long distances to water the trees in. "Why do we have to do this, Dad?" was their main question. I can with confidence say that I planted most of the trees myself. There were some other benefits. I developed a close relationship with our dog who enjoyed coming into the country every second or third weekend. She was at her best when taking care of me and providing protection.

We had mixed results with the planting. We endured 2 bad droughts. It would be fair to say we had a less than a 50% success rate. It does seem that climate change with its slight increase in temperature and decreasing rainfall has made it harder for trees to survive and indeed many have died since 2000. But enough trees survived to make the place look very different.

I did learn some new things. I learned that some trees have juvenile leaves when they are young and as they grow older they develop adult leaves. Appropriately the juvenile leaves are always more attractive. I learned that some trees cling tenaciously to life and that others can turn up their toes at the drop of a hat. I had the unhappy experience of seeing some trees that I had planted die of old age. I had never expected them to die before I did. I learned that some trees are naturally stronger than others. The responsibility for all this lies in the genes. The same as humans. Our cousins the trees. We all share the same DNA structure.

Eventually we built a house. I enjoy living in the house and being able to look out at all the trees that have survived. I cannot say though that I have returned the land to its pristine state. The world is always changing. Change is always in the air. Nowhere looks as it did in the past. But we can try.
​

Neville Gibb
March 2022

I have been present at some events that have later been called historical.

Some events come to mind.

I was there when the Queen and Prince Phillip circled the Benalla showgrounds in 1954.

I was there when President Johnson jumped out of a car and waved an American Flag in a most idiotic manner in front of the Melbourne Town Hall.

I was there when both Sir John Kerr and the Melbourne Racing Club members acted shamefully at the 1978 Melbourne Cup.


The historical event which I am about to relate would not be considered as historical as the events mentioned above, but nevertheless was important and became part of history. And did include some shameful acts by upstanding members of the community.

It relates to members of my own family.

The township of Moyhu in the mid 50’s was much larger than it is now. It had three general stores. It had two fully functional garages. It had a large transport company. Several State Government Services with offices and buildings were located in the town – The River Trust – The Lands Department – etc. It had two milk factories. It had a number of churches. It had one butcher. It had one bookmaker. It had one hotel.

In other words it was thriving. The area contained a large number of young people. The baby boomer period was just beginning.

It had a very active football club. It fielded 2 football teams and there were more players than those needed for 2 teams. All vying for a place in either team. Football was important to the community. It blended the various religious and class conscious factions together. It provided entertainment each weekend. It provided social cohesion to the community and the community took an interest and participated in all its activities. Training was 2 nights a week and was always well attended by both players and spectators.

I had a number of slightly older relatives who played for Moyhu. Of course they were considered to be role models. In particular there were two brothers Ray and Bill who were particularly close to my family. These 2 brothers were both in their late teens. Ray was the elder by one year. Bill was more talented. Both were vying for a place in the first team. Both played in the seconds and both were considered to have a chance of playing in the firsts. Halfway through the season Ray was picked in the firsts. Even though he was picked as the 19th man it was considered to be his debut game in senior football. This was a big thing in his family and some celebrations took place.

However on Friday morning one of the senior players became ill and had to withdraw from the team. The normal procedure was that the 19th man would then take his place. Ray fully expected to take the field at the start of the game and did not hesitate to say so. After all he was extremely pleased to have the opportunity and hoped his many relatives might come and see him play his first senior game.

On Friday night it was announced that another young player from the seconds would be brought into the team and that Ray would remain as 19th man.

Ray felt humiliated and hurt by this and refused to turn up for the game.  What's more, he told the Moyhu Officials off in no uncertain terms. Further, he demanded a transfer to King Valley.

For some reason, Ray was not treated with sympathy and understanding, but was told that he was a team member and would have to turn up to the game and be 19th man. He was told that he would never get a transfer to King Valley as there were no grounds under the rules to allow a transfer anywhere.

He was in fact treated with contempt and derision in conversation by most of the Moyhu officials. Some even saw the matter as being humorous verging on hilarious. I wont tell you their names because most of them still have relatives in the district. But I remember them. I was there.

Ray stuck to his guns and stood out of football for some weeks.  The league itself granted Ray a transfer after some lobbying by Ray's father, who thankfully had some respect in the football community. Ray's father had been in fact the only person who spoke in his favour as far as I could tell. The Moyhu Officials held up the transfer as long as they could. Most people thought that he was being stupid and should have accepted his fate. For some time it was quite a talking point.

Both brothers went on to have long careers in football. Bill was indeed the more talented and went on to a stellar career with Wangaratta Rovers and coached North Wangaratta. He was even approached by Collingwood. Ray never reached the playing heights of Bill but stayed with King Valley for the next 30 plus years as player and official and unpaid volunteer. He fulfilled many club roles. As time went on and he moved away from the area he still worked assiduously for the club and he would have covered many kilometres in order to make his contribution.

The upshot was Moyhu disappointed a young person and King Valley got a grateful member who became a dedicated worker for the next 30 or so years.

Who had the best deal I wonder?

The historical event I want to relate took place towards to end of next season. Bill was by this time playing in Moyhu firsts and Ray was playing in King Valleys firsts. This however was the first time they had played in a game when both were playing. There was much discussion about what would happen between Bill and Ray.  By this time it was considered that Bill was by far the better player and that Ray would keep well clear of him.

For two quarters the brothers played on each other. For the second and third quarters Ray kept a close check on Bill.  Wherever Bill went Ray was on his heels. And, to be fair, it has to be said that Ray shaded Bill. This was a surprise to all but the statistics proved it. Ray was able to prevent Bill making use of his talent and was even able to wrest the ball away from him at times and put his team into attack. For the last quarter Bill was moved away from Ray and was even taken off the ground. The 19th and 20th men came on for a run.

Moyhu did win the game. Fairly comfortably. But this was expected. Moyhu always had powerful teams.

Even though Moyhu won the game this should have been considered as Ray's triumph. But no. There was not one Moyhu Official who offered to congratulate Ray and shake his hand. In fact as he came off the ground some Moyhu supporters lined up and jeered him. I won't tell you their names as they still have relatives in the district.

I know all this happened because I was there.


Neville Gibb
February 2022

Triggers rule our lives. Remember that. At least they do mine.

For me only some triggers are welcome. Sometimes we cannot remember a name. A simple thing. An everyday thing. A common thing. It can be very frustrating. And annoying. And at times depressing. It can only portend of bad things for the future. The trick is to tie it to a trigger. Tie it to an object that comes into contact with what you are seeking and it can suddenly become clear.

Some triggers are repetitive and well meaning. Our lives are definitely more enjoyable when we are reminded of benign memories.

Whenever I see a middle aged man holding a baby I am reminded of my uncle holding my brother and telling me that there was a special way of holding a baby if you want him to stop crying. Hold him just like this and he will stop crying he said. He demonstrated how to hold him by holding with his left hand and gesturing with his right. I was 4 years old. My brother stopped crying. My uncle laughed self satisfactorily. He did not have any children himself. I was never allowed to hold my brother by himself.

I enjoy it when a trigger sets off a series of happy thoughts.

Sometimes a trigger can remind me of a job I once had where I enjoyed every minute of it. I was happy doing this job from 9 to 5.10 every day with a full hour for lunch. The work was interesting and varied. It was never tedious or dull. There was always a problem to be solved. Every problem was enjoyable and sometimes required a certain amount of thought. Sometimes I was involved in quite important things I thought could end up historical. None did. All my work colleges except one were helpful and friendly. My day was a total joy from beginning to end. I was certainly never bored. I was always happy to go to work every day. I woke up each day with an expectation I would be doing good things. I was aware of the concept of the pursuit of happiness.

I am reminded of this job when I see a person in charge of their desk. When a person sits at their desk and says via their body language that they are in control of the desk and with it the job I am always thankfully reminded of my earlier life. I was in charge of my desk also. I controlled whatever situation that came up. I knew that I was the best person for this job. There was no one else who could do it as well as me. I sat happily in the chair at the desk.

But unfortunately I have more bad triggers than good ones. I have a lifetime of triggers. Hardly any are benign.

I have done a lots of things I regret and they all have triggers that remind me from time to time. I am always filled with a sense of deep remorse when a bad memory is triggered. After the trigger is set off for some time I am filled with an overwhelming sense of shame. This is sometimes hard to erase. I am sometimes filled with such regret that I cannot function for some minutes.

I like to believe this is common for all humans.

Triggers rule our lives.

But I am not so sure if this is for all Australians.

Neville Gibb
November 2021

At the end of the day it was her habit to go over what had happened. She did not keep a diary but she found by going over everything it was more likely that she could remember things. And she could remember where they had been.

After all lots of things were happening.

She had spent the previous night in the sleeping compartment of a luxury train. She had not expected to do this. They had diverted from the official plan. They had been scheduled to stay for two days on a large farm where they could relax and be more or less alone. But it was explained that they were way behind schedule and they had to make up two or more days.

So she and her husband were kept on the train.

The carriage was special and had two bathrooms. So both she and her husband were able to have separate bathrooms. They were at either end of the carriage. This suited her fine. Their bedroom and sitting room was in the middle of the carriage. It had windows that could be made completely private. If required it could could be completely blacked out to simulate darkness. It was truly a luxury carriage and had all the facilities. She could lock the doors from inside. She felt quite safe. This was important to her.

The train had been diverted to a country station and had stopped for them to spend the night in a rural area. She and her husband had been left alone. More or less to rely on their own resources. This suited them fine. Her husband was tired and after a light supper had gone to bed early. She stayed up doing a little reading and writing letters home to her family.

She was kept fully in touch by the people at home so she never felt she was neglecting her family. But she tried to do as much as she could and kept up a daily correspondence to everyone.

Early next morning she had been woken up by hearing schoolchildren singing school songs in the distance. She could not see them but they sounded nice even though they were a little distance away.

They were brought their breakfast from the nearest railway station. Her husband was not fussy about food and enjoyed these unexpected treats. She herself was slightly wary as she was very careful about what she ate and tried to keep healthy at all times. Still she was able to pick and chose and had a satisfactory breakfast.

They were ready to leave by 10AM.

The train would be sent on and would pick them up later in the afternoon.

They were transferred to an open car and driven through the local town. Even out in these rural areas there were large crowds. The car went quite slowly and the crowds milled quite close to the road. She waved to the crowd.

When the car left the town it speeded up and the hood was put up. They had some distance to go before they arrived at the next town. This town was larger than what they had left and there were several things that were scheduled.

They had to alight from the car at the main Railway Station and attend an official reception. There were several speeches from local dignitaries. She had been made aware of the schedule before they left for the morning. One speech went on for longer than it should have. She knew this because she always took note of the times allocated for speeches. She looked into the faces of those attending. She heard people talking but she didn't really pay attention. Not that she meant to be rude. She had heard it all before. She was not scheduled to speak today and no speech had been prepared for her.

She and her husband got back in the car and they were driven through the streets of the town. There were large crowds and they cheered as they went past. Finally went through some gates saying Showgrounds and they ended up in a cricket ground. She could see the pitch laid out in the middle of the ground. She found this somehow comforting. She wondered how often they played here and when they were playing next.

There were crowds of schoolchildren ringing the cricket ground. The car took them on a circuit of the ground just inside the fence. The children waved and her husband waved back. She used her official wave that her father had taught her.

For the schoolchildren it was over very quickly.

But all the children were happy. It was a day out.

And they were given a medallion that said they had attended a meeting with the Queen.

I know cause I was there.

But she herself was not aware of this. So she could not commit it to memory later that night.

Neville Gibb
October 2021

Is it possible to channel Leopold Bloom and Ivan Denisovich? Can I make my life interesting enough to compare to these two gentlemen? Can I write what is happening in my life and not divulge til after halfway through that I am Jewish? Can I write the complete description of one whole day where the best I can hope for is to not get ill?  I know its possible to describe the events of one day, but what are we to make of it?

Lots of things still happen. In spite of all the worry we have not yet come to a complete standstill.

In a way we have reached the living standard of the 19th Century Aristocrat. Our lives have become exercises in doing nothing. We indulge in ritual to keep up medication. We spend more time on dressing. And are things worthy of consideration where we are only at the periphery of events. Can we ever describe things truthfully?

We might well ask – what is going on with the world. Can we possibly say what is happening?

How could we put the minutiae of what is happening in the world in a bottle.

At this particular time on our planet we are immersed in a great argument over whether a worldwide pandemic is legitimate. We have a substantial minority who believes that the Covid 19 virus has been hoisted on the world by a Deep State of elite figures headed by Bill Gates amongst others in order to increase their own power. Indeed the previous President of The United States advised that the pandemic was a hoax and the illness infecting the population was nothing more than a mild flu. We have close family members who believe passionately that they should have the right to refuse a covid vaccine. We have family members who passionately believe that vaccines produced by pharmacy manufactures are only experimental and are therefore dangerous to the public. We are told by others that the Pharmacy Companies are taking advantage of the situation and are enjoying great profit taking from the manufacture of vaccines.

We have friends who passionately believe that there is a worldwide push to unite the forces of the left in a conspiracy to take over the world and shut down the much cherished freedoms enjoyed by individuals up to this point. The virus which supposedly originated in China has been hoisted on the rest of the world to hasten this takeover. The deep state is infecting everyone who accepts the vaccine with a miniature chip that can then track that person for the rest of their life.

After the virus spread amongst the general community we have been subject to a series of lock downs. The public has been confined to their homes to stop the spread of the virus. So far this has been relatively successful. Australia has an advantage in that it is an island with secure borders and each state has the power to shut the borders tight. This has led to complaints in some quarters. Self interest has generated most complaints. The Government has however been able to convince the public that considering the bigger picture is the most responsible tactic in dealing with the pandemic.

On an individual level some of us have enjoyed the lock downs more than others. Anyone who previously enjoyed watching Television has been able to indulge themselves without feeling an enormous amount of guilt. People who were previously accused of wasting their lives watching television have had their revenge. Except it has transpired that unfortunately there is a limited amount of worthwhile TV to watch. The suppliers of streaming services have had a bonanza but even this source of enjoyment is close to drying up. No one knows what will occur when this happens.

Sometimes people have been able to experiment with things they often thought about but did not have the time to indulge in previously. People have been able to spend more time on the preparation of food and have been able to make slight charges to their diet. Hopefully for the better.

If I were to channel Ivan and Leopold I would say my day is this.

I get up and feed the birds. I try and commune with both Cockatoos and King Parrots. The Cockies re introverted and uninterested in me. The King Parrots are much more friendly and appear much more intelligent but are intimidated by the Cockies.

I indulge myself in long showers because there is no hurry to be anywhere.

I prepare myself a vegetarian breakfast that I hope includes all the required nutrients for a healthy body. This procedure takes approx an hour but I have the time and I listen to the BBC as I am preparing the ingredients. The Micro wave oven makes this an easy exercise. What did we do before we had microwave ovens.

I check the daily TV guide and set my recording box up to record anything worth while that is being transmitted on that day. I have the ambition to not watch what is on TV at the moment but to watch what I have considered worth watching on TV. Hence I record a number of programmes in order to watch at a later time.

I have a leisurely breakfast catching up on what I have recorded over that past few days or even past few weeks.

I sometimes have a post breakfast snooze. This can be guaranteed to always fill up my energy tank.

I cannot get through all these rituals before 12 noon.

In the afternoon I might go out and inspect the garden. And consider what I should be doing for its upkeep.

But I can always claim that the lock down says I should be inside and return to the safety of the lounge with its relaxing pillows.


Neville Gibb
​September 2021

The year that made me.

It is difficult for me to pick a year that made me. I cannot think of one particular year that had any positive effect on me to the point where I could claim it made me. I had some years that were better than others. Good times sometimes spanned a number of years. Good things sometimes telescoped into bad things overnight. These were not unique to any year.

Certain years however had a deeply negative effect on me. I will not go into why 1966 and 1975 were years that I found difficult to recover from. It has to be said that these years were not years that I enjoyed. They certainly had a definite negative effect.

In January 1968 I was at the end of a long process of being called up in the draft. I had had this hanging over me for two years. There was some confusion about how many dates of birth were eligible but finally it appeared obvious I was called up. But then it turned out I was not called up. I did not know whether to be relieved or not.

By this time in 1968 I had talked myself out of three jobs in quick succession. I was still employed but if I am honest I didn't deserve to be. I was at the bottom of the rung employment wise and had no where else to go. And this was in the time of full employment. I was essentially a teenager who had not matured. I could not comprehend my situation and this caused me to make decisions that were self destructive. I destroyed my private life for one thing. Immediately I regretted it but could do nothing – the die had been cast. I had became alienated from friends and family and workmates. I withdrew into myself. I shrunk from society. I spent my time alone. I stopped enjoying life.

So 1968 could be called the year that I turned my life around. It could be said that it was the year that made me. It was a year that without any great planning on my part finally had a positive effect on me.

So what did I do.

In those days there was one thing that was life changing and was available to anyone.

I went to England.

In January1968 I had seen a film about Mary Quant. It was a short documentary shown between the main features and was the first film after intermission. It showed this girl about my age putting dresses into boxes ready for sale. They were all green but each dress was slightly different. She was wearing one of the dresses. She showed it off with pride and confidence. She said she had made it herself. She had an explanation for each dress as she wrapped them in expensive looking crepe paper and carefully put them into white boxes. They were all in the new mini dress style. The film had a soundtrack announcer extolling her virtues. How she had become a clothing manufacturer herself and was gaining a reputation as a fashion designer. London was becoming the fashion capital of the world and Mary Quant was leading the way. She spoke directly to the camera and was totally believable. She seemed to speak directly to me.

It was quite a short film yet it had a great effect on me because it gave me the idea I could go to London.

I was completely smitten with her from just watching this short film. I found her attractive and I found her clothes attractive. Here was a girl living out her dreams. What a life she must have had. She was successful and grown up. She was happy.

She also appeared to be totally free. Of course I knew her life had no connection to mine and that I was latching on to some dream in order to improve my life. I knew I was clutching at straws

I knew her situation was the opposite to mine. I could never join her world. Our paths would never cross. She was in a totally different league than me. But she was telling me I could do something. Somewhere inside of me she made a connection and spoke on my level. She somehow gave me confidence that I could do something.

She seemed to be saying that London was available to anyone. That there were exciting times to be had by being there. Just come. There was freedom here. The air was different. The very ground was different. You were free. You could walk the streets and enjoy yourself. You could live without feeling downtrodden.

At that time Australia was still tied to England. We were British subjects. We were welcome in England. We could go anytime. Lots of young people went.

Once the idea was planted in my mind it was easy and even inevitable. There was no looking back. This was my way out. In quick succession I obtained a passport and a ticket and I was away. I burned my bridges behind me.

The rest of the year was an enjoyable blur. I went from triumph to triumph. I finished up being pleased with myself and envied by others. 1968 was the year that made me.
​

Neville Gibb
May 24 2021

​Who knows what it is like to be new in town?

What is it like to be placed in a completely new environment. New streets. New buildings. New house. New school.

To be surrounded by new people. To be suddenly aware that you are the new person in the room. Surrounded by people you do not know. Not seeing any sympathetic faces. No friends.

We have all experienced this to a smaller or greater extent. We all know that uneasy feeling of feeling shy. Of being very aware that no one knows us. That we are alone in a large group. Where we feel the group is hostile. Where we wish we had a friend we could be with.

But some of us have it easier than others. To be new in town can be very intimidating. Especially if you come from another country. Especially if you are a different ethnic group.

In the 1950’s Australia had an immigration programme. This policy was instituted by the government because Australia had a need for labour. Between the wars all immigrants had come from Great Britain and immigration was self funded. The new policy of assisted migration still brought many migrants from Great Britain but also migrants were brought from war torn Europe and given the official name of New Australians. This policy was considered radical and was not totally popular with the public. People had a set idea of what an Australian was and these New Australians did not always comply with the accepted norm.

I went to several schools during the 50’s. I came into contact with several migrant children. None of them had an easy time. Boys especially. I know this because I was there.

I knew one child who had several black marks against him. Not only did he have a thick accent but he had a single mother as a parent. Also he came to the school in the middle of the term. Also he was poor. If you saw him on weekends at something like the Wangaratta Show he was still wearing his school uniform. He did not have any proper clothes. Early on he tried to join the kick to kick group playing football, but he had little talent and no one would give him the ball so he could have a kick. He was small and his skin was very white. We learned that his mother was a cleaner at the Woollen Mills. Worse, we learned that she worked shift work. I once had a conversation with him and he told me that he listened to the radio every Sunday night when his mother was working. He was always home alone. He knew the serials that were on the ABC. His accent meant that the teacher had trouble understanding him, so he did not get much opportunity to speak in class. He was made fun of by other students at every opportunity.

I knew another boy who told us he came from Poland. He also had a mother as a single parent. She worked at one of the hotels. He lived with her in the Hotel. This surprisingly had some kudos because sometimes adults who frequented the hotel befriended him. Once a star footballer came to our school, recognised him nd made a big fuss of him. Called him out to the front of the class. Called him My Friend Edvard. This was impressive to us children. And Edvard had aspirations to being the class clown. He sometimes got the English wrong which made the clownish behavior more funny.

I never wanted to swap places with immigrant boys.

I always thought that immigrant girls had it easier. They were always good looking. They always had good looking clothes. They always seemed to be sophisticated. They seemed to have a background that protected them from being teased. Where their parents got the money to buy their nice clothes I cannot say. They also were never seemed to be required to speak in public by the teacher. There were always two or more of them and they stuck together in the schoolyard. They did not hesitate to speak in a foreign language and laugh at you. I can never remember any of them being teased by boys. Sometimes girls tried, but it never seemed to affect any of the migrant girls. Australian girls, yes. Every day one girl or another seemed to be crying at the back of the class because she was being picked on.

It was always easier being a girl. It wasn't until I became an adult that I was told this was not the case.

Neville Gibb
​April 2021

​I once witnessed a marriage breakup. I witnessed the exact tipping point when the marriage came apart. I didnt quite realise the significance at the exact time but I knew what I saw was something big. It was an unusual situation and it resonated with me. I knew something had happened. It was only later on when I was told they had separated that it confirmed I had witnessed something significant. Well, everyone at the BBQ witnessed it. Not just me. I dont know if they took the same conclusion though when it actually happened.
​
In my youth I wanted to play the guitar and sing folk songs. I was not talented in either field. But I tried. My voice was weak and I could not carry a tune. I could never work out a new chord on the guitar by myself. I could never work out how to play a particular note or sequence of notes. I could only learn the basic chords by rote and even then I couldn't make them sound authentic. But in time I learnt the popular chords and got by. I was keen.

In the 60’s the National Bank had three branches in London. One was a normal Branch Office like any branch office in Australia but the other two dealt with transfers of money and had reasonably large staff numbers. Employees of the Bank could apply for a move to London just like any other branch. You had to pay your own way but once there you were paid in Australian Money. I thought that the Bank would be overwhelmed with requests, but in fact it was relatively easy to get there. It wasn't as if every staff member wanted to go to London for a year or two, only some wanted to go. A number of mostly males went and usually made life long friends whilst there.

I had an aquaintance who worked at the Bank who had done two stints in London. His name was Gordon and he had Scottish relatives in London. He was a sociable bloke who had made plenty of friends while there. In conversation I had asked what he was doing the next weekend and in passing he told me he was having a barbecue and he had invited some people he knew in London. He was having a small reunion of London friends at his house and there was going to be a singsong.

He had previously told me he was quite popular at parties in London because he could play country and western songs and could sing quite well.

I pricked up my ears and asked if I could bring my guitar and maybe learn something. He said yes. He might have felt sorry for me.

I had got to know him because I was a customer of the Bank and I knew he played the guitar. Even though I had not been to London I was keen to attend. I knew how pleasurable it could be to contribute music in a group.

The BBQ went off normally. There were the usual mixture of wives and kids. Steak and sausages. Hamburgers. After eating was over Gordon announced it was time to get the guitars out for a singsong. I was one of the first to get my guitar. But there was one bloke already assembled and sitting there with his guitar when I arrived with mine. He also had a mouth organ and was tuning up his mouth organ to his guitar. Or strictly speaking the other way around. I did the same. He was dressed in a suit and tie. After all he was a Banker. He had met Gordon in London several years earlier. He told me that he missed the camaraderie of London and had been looking forward to this day since he had heard it was going to happen. If I was keen then he was very keen. He was excited. He said how much he loved this type of thing. His face showed how pleasurable he felt. Slowly men came to the playing area until there were about six  of us sitting there. All waiting with expectation for Gordon to come. Finally Gordon emerged from his house carrying his guitar and walked towards the group with guitars. Other people were standing or sitting gathered round waiting to sing.

However before Gordon could make the circle a woman who turned out to be my new friend's wife came towards us holding out both hands. She was holding up one hand as if to say stop. The other was held out as if she wanted something. She walked up to my keen friend, still holding out her hand and asked for his keys.

At this point he did something decidedly surprising. Shocking even. He simply broke down and cried. He expressed a low moan as if he was in great pain. He crumpled up into a foetal position and put his head down between his legs. He assumed the position you are told to do on planes when danger comes. He kept shaking his head while staring at the ground. He groaned a low moan - what do you want now – he cried - while still looking down and shaking his head from side to side. He looked totally defeated. He even put his hands over his head to hold it down between his legs. He seemed to be sobbing.

His wife was a bit taken aback – I want to put the children in the car so we can go home – she said. He didnt say anything but continued groaning and shaking his head between his knees for several seconds. She said – you dont have to come home – you can wait – someone else can bring you home. And she looked pointedly at me. He looked at her pleadingly and suddenly went silent. He didn't say another word. But he looked her straight in the face. He drew in a big breath.

He then stood up and without a word silently walked to his car carrying his guitar and his mouth organ. He did not say another word. She followed.

She was smiling in an embarrassed way -  as if to say – I apologise – he is often like this. She followed him to the car her children trailing behind.

Some others smiled in sympathy. Women mostly.

I felt the mans pain. It was a seminal moment. I was one human being recognising another's pain. Misery even. I understood completely how he felt.

The next time I saw Gordon I asked if he had seen his friend again. Gordon simply said that his friend and his wife had separated and gave no other explanation. Gordon was a notoriously conservative Presbyterian when it came to social issues. I did not ask for more information.

But I had witnessed a definite tipping point.


Neville Gibb
March 2021 

Some years ago ABC Television showed a half hour programme called A Different Drummer.

This was about a number of people who had recently been in the news.

The people highlighted had all drawn attention to themselves by being different to the ordinary. They had involved themselves in some controversial topic and were being questioned by either the public or the authorities. I had heard most of these people on the radio but I had not seen what any looked like. All were treated with some notoriety in the press. Sometimes they were well out of the ordinary.  All were asking for validation for their own particular viewpoint. It was conceded that they were all protesting a point of view that was out of the ordinary. They were all trying to get a change in the world.

The TV show was the first time I had seen how they looked. When I saw them I was surprised. In some cases I was shocked.

I was struck by how different they looked to how I had imagined them when I had heard them. None of them looked like they sounded. Because of this their credibility was somehow lessened. I could not help but be skeptical.

Is this strange? We do judge books by their covers and we do judge people by how they look. We assess the intelligence of a person by the shape of their face. Sometimes we are impressed not by what a person says but what they sound like when they say it. In this case I had been struck by how they sounded. They had deep feelings on a subject and they had advocated for their viewpoint quite well. Listening to them I was willing to give them credibility. Looking at them I was not.

Two of the people on the TV especially disappointed me when I saw how they looked. I had been impressed when hearing them on the radio. I thought what they said had been impressive. They sounded impressive. Naturally I thought they would look impressive. They didn't.

What are we to make of this? Does drawing conclusions from how people look to how they sound make their viewpoint any less important. I had judged their intentions by how they sounded. Now I judged their character by how they looked. We are all capable of making judgments based on prejudice and in this case I went with the collective subconscious and judged them harshly.

I judged that what they said was lessened by how they looked.

One was a male Doctor specializing in women giving birth. It was his contention that women had evolved to have children and giving birth was entirely natural. Therefore there was absolutely no reason to assist a woman at birth with drugs or indeed any medical treatment at all. He made the point that indigenous woman had been having babies for thousands of years without the help or hindrance of western medicine or western drugs. His claim was that a woman's body would deliver the baby when it was appropriate. Not before or not after.

He had a number of female followers who supported him. He was being investigated by the medical authorities because it was alleged he had permanently affected a mother and baby in a birth where he was in charge. The film showed him speaking to his supporters before he went into the meeting where he was to give an explanation. He made a short speech which I listened to with interest.

What struck most was how he looked. In short he did not look like a doctor. He was not dressed like a doctor. He did not sound like a doctor. Even so it was obvious that some women were extremely supportive of him.

I was frankly shocked at what he said and how he looked. He had a weak looking face. He did not look like he had the courage of his convictions.

Whilst what he was saying might have some overall truth there were some things that were just too counter intuitive to ignore. Surely there were some circumstances where basic medical attention could be life saving. Did he know the death rate of indigenous births before Europeans with their medicine appeared on the scene. How could he asses these statistics. What conclusions could he draw from limited data.

I concluded that his face told me he was doing this to aggrandise his own ego.

The woman who most surprised me was a writer who was complaining that Romantic Fiction literature was never taken seriously. She was indeed a Romantic Fiction writer and it was her contention that her type of writing was never included in Literary Prizes. To her this was blatantly unfair. And why did this happen she asked? She contended that her writing was equal to all other Australian writers Patrick White included.

What struck me was how good looking she was and the she knew she was good looking. It was obvious she was good looking but was she intelligent? She had lustrous well coiffed hair. She was extremely well made up. She had a good figure and she wore expensive clothes that accentuated her figure. Indeed when she spoke she drew attention to her figure. Her figure was important to her. It was hard to judge her age. Perhaps she had even had work done on her face. How could she be serious in her contention that she was a legitimate writer that deserved respect? As it turned out I had previously sampled her books and could not get past 5 pages. There were no characters in her books that resembled me or interested me.

In my experience good looking women were always rewarded for their good looks. All sorts of literal and metaphysical doors were opened for them. When could a good looking woman ever have any reason to be unhappy? I myself could never imagine a good looking woman being unhappy. Or not getting what she wanted.

I had often heard the maxim that you should always compliment a good looking woman on her intelligence and an intelligent woman on her good looks but this had never applied to me because I had never got close to a good looking woman such as this Romantic Fiction writer.

And anyway surely an intelligent woman could see through any hypocritical compliment.

What conclusions do we draw from this? Unfortunately not good ones in my case.

In both cases I allowed myself to resort to prejudice. I took the easy way. I went with the collective subconscious that human beings share. I judged humans on their looks rather than their character.

I know this did not reflect well on me. I did not investigate their characters. Justice definitely did not prevail.

Neville Gibb
September 2019

​Time is with us from the beginning of life.  Clocks make it easier for us to keep tabs on it, though some of us choose to ignore them, but we are a servant to time and we can't exist without it.

Imagine an orb that varies in size for every individual.  We don't know how big it is as it cannot be seen, but we do know that from our beginning it starts slowly rotating and that as it turns it sheds particles from the surface. 

What we do with those particles has a bearing on our lives.  For example, we may just ignore them or we may do something constructive with them, work with them, learn from them, have fun with them or share them with friends or family.  But we use them in some way. 

Sometimes the particles that come away are very sharp and we must be careful how we handle them as they could cause us harm physically or emotionally. 

Some contain pain and grief, but even these if handled and managed the right way can be stored away safely in our head and heart as memories. 

​As the orb of time turns we gain experience and grow used to expecting the unexpected. 

The thing to remember is that time waits for no one, and it certainly doesn't stand still. 

​When I was a child, twelve months was like an eternity.  Christmas and school holidays seemed an age away.  Time seemed to move very slowly then, but as I grew older there was so much happening and time seemed to fly; but of course we know that this isn't the case.  But we do know that with each rotation of time that orb gets smaller until it has worn away to nothing and it has shed its last particle.

That is when our time is up, or our time has run out.  It is time to go, so don't waste time.  Do something before it passes by as one day it will all be gone.

Thank you for sharing the time to listen.  I hope I haven't wasted a particle of your time.  


Neville Gibb
May 2019

I first met my children the day they were born. The moment they were born to be exact. The relationship and feeling I have for all 3 was created at that time and has not been changed. They in turn have not changed and have stayed the same. The character and personality that was revealed that day has stayed in place.

All three children were planned. All were anticipated with love. No gender was known in advance. All three births were different experiences. There were absolutely no similarities.

The first was the most physically demanding. The labour was about 5 hours but seemed to be difficult. Lots of pain and not much movement. Drugs were administered but did not work. I had announced at least 1 hour before birth that I could see its head – and indeed I could see a head with hair. After a lot of further exhausting painful effort the Doctor finally held up the forceps in a threatening manner and this did the trick. The forceps looked both medieval and veterinary and did look frightening. They did the trick and Tom was extruded shortly after without the help of the forceps. But Tom was born drugged and asleep. As soon as he came out he was whisked away to a corner in the room and tubes were inserted in his mouth and throat. After a short time however we could hear him breathing if only like a dentists suction tube. This was a relief. Normal breathing was soon resumed. The Doctor checked him over before he commenced the tiresome duty of sewing Jenny up. After Jenny was sewn up Tom was handed to us. He still had his eyes closed. We both held him close to our faces. He opened his eyes. Looking straight at us. Seemingly in recognition. HELLO. Hello we both said in unison.

Jenny asked for a cup of tea – the first she had had in 8 months. She had gone off tea while pregnant. Tom still looks at us in the same recognising way.

The next birth was on a Saturday morning. Jenny had feelings she wasn't sure of so she phoned the hospital they said to come in. There was no urgency. No hurry. However the moment we walked into the ward area she had a massive contraction and we were shown into the birthing room. We were welcomed by what appeared to be a 19 year old girl. What had happened on the previous Wednesday was that Jenny’s Doctor had been killed in a car accident. We had not been told anything apart that he was dead. I did not exactly ask if the girl was here on work study or what school she went to but she could see my concern and she laughingly explained that she was a Doctor – the Hospital Registrar and she was here to supervise the birth.

And she was wonderful. She took charge straight away. Jenny went into deep contractions close together and The Doctor announced that the birth was imminent. She just had to break the waters. Which she did and indeed the waters came gushing out like a fountain. She then told Jenny to stop pushing as he was coming too quickly. She said she wanted to get the head right. She inserted her hand into Jenny and held James down while keeping Jenny calm. She then said OK push and James immediately came out. He almost shot out. It was like he was coming out of underwater. As he came out he put his hands in the air as if to cheer that he had made it out. He started crying immediately. He was placed on Jenny’s chest while the umbilical chord was cut and he immediately tried to suck. He had dark hair. Lots of it. He was happy to be alive.

The third came slowly but surely. Were they contractions she was having? Should we go to the hospital or should we wait. We went to the Hospital and waited there. Jenny said it felt different. It must be a girl. It wasn't a big thing. We did not mind.

Suddenly things sped up. Jenny said she felt she was not prepared. And there was no Doctor there. He was away on an urgent case. There were two midwives and they reassured her that all was well and they would handle it. And they did. Their technique was to urge breathing deeply with every contraction. Jenny tried but requested gas and took it in hungrily. They reassured her that everything was OK. The baby was pointing the right way. They had their listening devices and they could tell the baby was not stressed. Their listening devices looked over 100 years old but they knew what they were doing. They appeared to be made out of Bakelite. They kept placing them on Jenny’s stomach and listening on the other end. Everything was OK. Just keep breathing and don't do any pushing as yet. Jenny said that she could not help pushing. She was worried she might want to go to the toilet. Not possible said the midwives. Don t worry about it. Just don't push. Jenny said she couldn't not push. "OK, Push" they said. She pushed with relief. And Alexander was born shortly after without too much trouble. He came out like he was still in the foetal position. The first thing I saw was his testicles. There was no mistaking him for a girl. I told Jenny and she was pleased. Another boy. Alex cried for a short while but then seemed to relax and went to sleep lying on Jenny’s chest.


Neville Gibb
September 2018

It was an unexpected meeting. One Sunday morning I saw a celebrity I recognised walking in a park alone. I was vaguely going the same way as him. He was in front of me but I would have recognised him anywhere. I wondered why was he here and why was he alone. He was walking slowly along. Ambling even.

This man had achieved iconic status. He was as famous as anybody was. What was he doing here? Surely he normally would have had someone with him.

Should I attempt to speak to him. Should I impose myself on him? Could I talk to him? What to do.

I followed him for a while. Suddenly he diverted to the left and quickened his stride. I summoned up what courage I could. I did want to talk to him so I ran after him. By the time I caught him I was more or less breathless. But I blurted out that I recognised him and would like to talk to him. Could I walk with him for a way?

He looked at me and gave me a once over before replying. He took his time but must have not noted anything untoward because he said – “judging by your accent it would be an honour”. This relaxed me immediately.

We fell into easy conversation. I told him who I was and where I worked. I told him where I lived. He seemed to relax. When I stopped talking he explained his position. There had been a mixup with his plane and he had arrived virtually one day early. He had a day to kill. He was suffering from jet lag. He was going to walk as much as he could and last out the day. He was in London on business.

I have to admit he was easy to talk to but then again he would have had a lot of experience at talking to people like me. We ambled along and talked of many things. Amongst other things he told me was that since his wife had died he did not like traveling. And also he wasn't too well off and could not afford to travel like he did when he was younger. I must have somehow expressed my skepticism because he said that just because he was famous did not mean he was rich. He had a good agent that got him lots of work but it didn't mean he got a lot of money. He had often been involved in money losing propositions. He had once been persuaded in going into renting theatres and it nearly sent him broke. The best he ever did was to wait it out in the South Pacific while Marlon Brando had sorted out his domestic problems. He only had a few lines but his contract said he was paid by the time he was held on call. These days he was often in Hollywood but he only got TV work. I said I had seen him in the Monkees TV show and he seemed pleased that I knew. “Aah Yes. Very determined young people” he said. He did not elaborate more.

I did not want to appear too gushing, so I did not press him on his Hollywood connections. In fact I tried to be as cool as I possibly could. I could tell by the glances we got from people around us that my companion was recognised. I enjoyed my being being in the presence of a celebrity. We ambled on and he suggested we have lunch. During the day I learned a little of what it is like to be well known. We ate in bistro style place where you got in a queue and told the people behind the counter what you wanted. They put it on a plate and you put the plate on your lunch tray. Everybody behind the counter knew him by name and the girl on the cash register handed him a menu without any explanation and he signed it. She said thank you. We then went into the Duke Of Wellington's House and looked at his paintings. I was surprised that the Duke had a Velasquez and my companion asked how I knew.

Later on he invited me to dinner at The Dorchester. I did express some concern at being able to afford this but he reassured me. He wasn't staying there but he knew the Doorman. He would let us in. And the Maitre D owed him a favour. Everything went to plan. The Maitre D winked at him and said “I know I still owe you”. We had a mixed grill. I had never been inside The Dorchester and I was surprised that no one looked especially privileged. No one spoke to us. He said he suddenly felt very tired and said he would go immediately to his hotel which was just up the street. He got up and went out without paying. He strode off. I didnt get a chance to thank him. But I had enjoyed the day. I had got to know a celebrity. Even became a friend.

There is however a sting in the tail of this tale.

On Wednesday a request came into our office for an appointment to sort out a passport problem. It was from my new friend. I was flattered thinking he was coming to me to get help. Why wouldn't he. He knew me. I was his new friend. Of course I would help him. I know him I explained to my fellow workers. I would handle it. You watch when he comes in how pleased he will be to see me. We would catch up on old times.

In due course he presented himself at out front counter. I went to see him and greeted him with great familarity – as if he was my friend. He was taken aback. A look of utter bewilderment came to his face. He was perplexed by my behavior. He looked at me with genuine worry. I could see he was unsure so I asked him if he recognised me. He replied that “he might recognise the dial but he could not place the face”. I could see that he had no idea who I was. I said that we spent last Sunday together. He said ‘Last Sunday” but with a complete blank trying frantically to think. “You remember I walked with you”. ‘Oh yes – of course” he said but I could see that he did not see. He genuinely had no idea of who I was or having ever been with me. He retreated into himself and explained his problem. I also retreated into myself – greatly taken aback.

We sorted out his problem quickly. I consoled myself with the fact that he would have fleetingly met and known hundreds of thousands of people. All of whom considered themselves his friend.

I was well and truly stripped of my celebrity status.

Neville Gibb
​September 2018

I met Lionel Rose when I was 9 years and he was slightly younger. We met at the Lord Mayors Camp at Portsea. There were three aboriginal children at the camp and he was their leader.  I knew they were aboriginal because the first night we were there and assembled in the dining room the Camp Leader asked if there were any aboriginal children in the camp. These three put up their hands. Over the next fortnight the three aboriginals kept to themselves or perhaps no one else would mix with them. Whatever - they went around in a group. Not having met an aboriginal before I sought out their company.  I was probably being pompous and condescending but I was curious. Lionel was their leader and he already had it in mind what he was going to do with his life. He was going to become world boxing champion. I had some knowledge of boxing in so far as reading about it in the newspaper and going to the boxing tent at the annual agricultural show in Wangaratta. I  knew who the world champs were in some of the categories. This was enough for Lionel. He was willing to talk boxing and boxers. He was extremely well informed. He actually knew one of the boxers who had been to the Wangaratta show and I had seen. Lionel wasn't very impressed with someone who would stoop to boxing at country show tents. He was never going to demean himself by boxing in a traveling tent. What struck me about him was how ambitious he was. What struck me was how confident he was. What struck me was how ruthless he was prepared to be. He was not afraid to speak his mind. He spoke with complete authority. He did not appear to have any weaknesses. He gave absolutely no hint of shyness or being intimidated by any adult. He was going to be world champ. No one was going to stop him.

He never once included his being aboriginal as integral to his ambitions. As far as I recall he never mentioned the word aboriginal or referred to being aboriginal himself. He was an individual focused entirely on his one ambition.

Later on when he did indeed become world champion I was struck how he appeared to have lost his confidence. He was different to when he was young. He appeared to have lost all his ambitions. He was shy on TV. He had become inarticulate. He did not like talking. He appeared to be completely intimidated by most of the other personalities on TV. He exhibited a humbleness that he never showed when he was young. He did not even seem to be the same person. His appearance and body shape had even changed somewhat. He didn't look as sleek and as fit. Or as powerful. Or as dangerous. He didn't even seem to be as good a boxer as when he was young. When he was 9 he was so good he already could have been world champ.

I did have the chance to speak to him towards the end of his life - not that I knew he was going to die so young. I would see him sometimes at the football at Waverley. We were both VFL members and he would walk up and down the concourse stopping to talk to people he knew before the match started. I was always too shy to interrupt him when he was talking to someone. I thought that if he was alone for a minute or two I would approach him and remind him of the past. But I never got the opportunity. So I never spoke to him.

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Neville Gibb
​September 2018

It is a universal truth that all happy families are alike in their happiness. All unhappy families are different. Happy families often have family rituals. Unhappy families do not.

The family of my childhood was both dysfunctional and unhappy. But both parents had an individual ritual they religiously kept. This could be classed as a family ritual because they both expected us children to partake in this family ritual. They both enjoyed milking cows. They both could lose themselves in the daily silent ritual of milking cows twice a day. There is a lot of repetition in milking cows. There is a lot of silence in milking cows. It is mostly a solitary pursuit. It promotes reflection. Both my parents immersed themselves in the ritual. Neither liked being away from home – my mother especially. Holidays were extremely rare. My mother hated being a woman – she often said this - as her life was not as good as it could have been if she was a man. She wanted to do manly things like driving tractors and milking cows. She was pleased to own a dairy farm. Owning a dairy farm meant that she was able to do most of what she wanted but of course she was expected to do a certain amount of housework which she resented. If she didn't have to do anything in the house – her words - she would have been happy. If she could have – her words – always worked out in the paddocks she would have been happy.

Both parents thought that hard work was good for children. All children were expected to do whatever work was required. There was no stopping until work was finished. This was definitely a family ritual.

It is fair to say that my mother was an unhappy person and this meant that the family was unhappy. My father was a patient man who liked a peaceful existence and always seemed to stand in the background. But he liked the ritualistic and solitary life of a dairy farmer.

They had both come from underprivileged backgrounds and had found themselves suddenly in the position of being able to purchase a viable dairy farm. This was a big step up for both of them. It was fulfilling a dream that both thought could never be realised. So neither was going to anything that would risk them losing the farm. They realised and respected their good fortune.

Growing up in an unhappy family leads you to assume that you will invariably have an unhappy family if indeed you have a family when you grow up.

In my own family we tried to institute family rituals. Timetables for doing homework. Eating at set times. Always playing classical music when traveling in the car.

Mostly these rituals failed to have an impact. Although we did try.

Of course I always had my own personal ritual of going to the football each week. I found this ritual relaxing. A solitary exercise into which I could escape in silence. Something that promoted reflection.

I slowly included my children into this ritual although we did have difficulties from time to time. In time as they grew up we enjoyed going to the football together. Still do.

My own particular family ritual was that I took our children to their first day at school. I cannot recall how this ritual eventuated. Maybe because my wife taught at the school that our children attended. Perhaps she had already worded them up as to how to act on the first day. Whatever it was a family ritual that I took our children to school on their first day.

This was always a bitter sweet experience. This was something I did not want to happen. I knew that time was passing and I could not stop it. I knew that once I handed my child over to the school that a part of them was gone forever. Of course I wanted all my children to stay young forever. I wanted time to stay still. I hated what was happening. I hated waving goodbye to each of them. But I did it.

As I progressed from child to child they became more mature. The first child was brave. The second child was more sure. The third child knew what needed to happen.

I remember every moment. My family ritual.


Neville Gibb
​June 2018

Australia is an infertile country. In reality it is mostly desert. Only a small percentage of the land is arable. Not much of the arable land can even be called fertile. It is dry. The weather is hot. The ground is rock hard. Most of all it lacks sufficient rainfall. Or the rainfall comes all at once and is wasted. There are floods. The poem says it all. Only the tropical areas have what appears to be sufficient rainfall but most of these areas have excessive rainfall and are equally unsuited for farming.
 
The true history of farming in Australia has shown it is hard and full of disappointments. Water is the problem. There is never enough of it.
 
My father was a dairy farmer. He was unusual in that he liked it. He seemed to enjoy the repetitive tedium of milking cows twice a day seven days a week. He never complained. He never changed his procedure whether it was boiling hot or freezing cold. He followed his own ritual. He continued to milk during the summer months when the cows had little energy for giving milk. When most other farms would knock off milking for two to three months over the summer and have a rest he would continue to slog on trying to extract as much milk as he could over the whole year. He had the theory that he would do better by having the cows calve all year round rather than having them only calve in autumn.
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For as long as I knew him he had a dream. He wanted to have an irrigation farm. He wanted to be able to have green grass in the summer so he could milk the whole year round.
 
He never achieved his dream. He nearly made it once. He convinced my mother that they would move to Shepparton and buy an irrigation farm. First he had to sell his own farm. But even with the help of an old army buddy who came to the auction and phantom bid trying to get the price up they did not get to the reserve price. No one wanted to buy at the price he needed to move. The farms around Shepparton were more expensive and he needed achieve a certain price in order to move.
 
He did not give up on his dream however. Through his contacts at the RSL he heard of a man who could predict where water was. He owned a drag line digger and would dig a hole where he predicted the water was.
 
We lived approximately one mile from the King River. In fact we lived on a previous watercourse of the King River although we did not realise this at the time. Later on when we became more educated in this area we could see that the river in a previous age was much larger and had a slightly different direction than it did now. In between our house and the King River there were four creeks that only flowed when it flooded. But when it did flood the water came up to our back door. My father progressively filled in each of these creeks by bulldozing in the banks and flattening out the paddocks adjoining each creek until there was no visual evidence that they had existed. He originally thought that he could use these paddocks as irrigation paddocks. His contact advised him that he could dig a hole that would provide enough water to irrigate the three paddocks. My father jumped at the chance.
 
I questioned the man as to how he could predict with certainty where there was water under the ground? He did not take kindly to a teenager questioning him but he did give me an answer. He said with some anger – Good Vibrations. This set me back a bit. Had he heard the song I wondered? Was he being sarcastic because he didn’t like me? I didn’t know and didn’t ask   – but I had certainly heard the song. And somehow this made a real connection with me. It was all he said. It was good enough. I had previously seen him with a bent piece of fence wire which he was holding out in front of him. Whether this was a prop to give him more credibility I don’t know. It could have been to shut people like me up. My father had always educated me to never question the RSL let alone any fellow member so I didn’t press the issue. This was at the beginning of the Vietnam War and the RSL was very important to my father.
 
I did not see the man again but the drag line hole was built. And it filled up with water. My father bought a new tractor and pump. Because the paddocks were not flat enough for flood irrigation he had to buy a spray irrigation system. This was a system of pipes that had sprays attached. They had to be moved every 4 hours in order to irrigate all three paddocks. For two years we spray irrigated these three paddocks. The drag line hole worked. You could never pump the hole dry. My father was immensely proud of his green paddocks. Did he make enough extra money to pay for the drag line hole and the irrigation system? He wouldn’t say. In two years the grass had deteriorated to water weed and the cows preferred other grass. Moving the irrigation pipes every four hours was even more tedious than milking the cows. But my father thought that hard work was good for young people and had no trouble giving me the job of moving 400 metres of irrigation pipes three times every day.
 
Then my father got sick. In a short while he died. We stopped spray irrigating. We stopped milking cows.
 
Many years later the Australian Skeptics Club held a scientific enquiry into water divining. Their conclusion was that there is always water under the ground. They could not find a diviner who could predict where water was under the ground with a more than a 50% success rate.
 
How did my Good Vibrations man know where water was? Or was it a reasonable prediction given the geography of the place. Or was it a lucky guess.
Are there any such things as Good Vibrations?
 

​Neville Gibb

When we came home from our Grandma’s one of the fish was dead. My sister cried her eyes out. I don’t know why. She never liked it.

She kept saying – I knew all weekend something had happened. I told you.

She had told us. Told us until we were sick of it. She never shut up. She hadn’t wanted to go to Grandma’s for the weekend. Mind you she had always thought she knew more than anyone else. She was always telling everyone else what to do. When it became true she thought she could predict the future. No one really took any notice of her. I ignored her.

But she was always making predictions.  She even wrote to the newspapers. They even printed what she said.  "Young girl predicts future" was the headline.  They wrote about what she had predicted – my sister was certain something was going to happen to Princess Diana. She had written to Princess Di telling her and received a reply. The paper printed both her letter and the reply, which was on Buckingham Palace Stationery. The paper made a big deal about this – can you believe it they said – a reply from Buckingham Palace itself. As it was the reply was not from Princess Di but from her Lady In Waiting. It said the Princess had taken note of what she said and wished my sister well. My sister always said Princess Di was not allowed to reply herself. That’s why the reply came from Buckingham Palace and not Kensington Palace. The Queen checked on what she was writing and only let ladies in waiting reply. My Sister was always trying to be something special at school. She showed her letter to anyone who would look. When her letter and the reply was printed in the paper my sister thought she was famous. You couldn’t talk to her.

I always liked going to Grandma’s. She always had secret presents for me. She always cooked things that I liked. I was her only Grandson. She always whispered this to me when she hugged me. I could stay in bed until lunchtime. She would even bring me breakfast in bed. She never once did this for my sister. I once wanted a pistol and she bought it for me and didn’t tell my mother. We kept it a secret. I hid it in my wardrobe and only showed it to other boys. I never showed it to my sister.

When we came home, as soon as we came in the front door, I could see that the fish tank had something wrong with it. It was clouded for one thing. The big fish was missing. My first thought was that we had been broken into and I ran to look in the wardrobe but my pistol was still there.
The fish was out of its water lying in the centre of the lounge room on the carpet. It was quite still.

For some reason our mother liked the fish. Normally she hated pets. They dirtied up the house and smelled. She was always passing comments about the smell of other people’s houses. She was always putting her hankie up to her nose when we were down the street. We could never have a dog because they smelled horrible and left fur all over the place. She hated untidiness. Same with cats. But she liked the fish. She even took it out of its tank and put it in a fishbowl which she kept on the table. It’s giving it a holiday she would say. It can look at us and see what we are doing. It’s true – it did seem to swim around looking out of the fishbowl. But I thought it always looked forward to getting back into its tank with the other fish.

My job was to feed the fish. And clean the tank walls. My sister did nothing. His stupid fish – meaning me - she called them when she bought people home. It wasn’t my fish. We had won the fish and the tank in a school raffle. Our mother bought some small fish to fill up the tank because it looked empty and she wanted the large fish to have company. She had to buy a pump to put air into the tank and she complained about it wondering if it was worth it. But in time I think the fish became hers. She always reminded me when to feed them and I got sick of her telling me how to clean the tank properly.

When we found the fish out of water she demanded to know who had let the fish out of its tank.

We said no one did. It got out by itself. Maybe it had wanted to get into the fishbowl. She should have put it in its bowl before we left. Don’t be stupid she said – it would have died over the weekend without the water being changed.

No other fish were dead. But our fish was out of water.

As I said my sister cried for days. I don’t know why. She hated it.

She gave up trying to predict the future after that.
 
 
Neville Gibb

History is littered with “If Only”  Moments.

If only Rene Kink had kicked a goal instead of a point after the siren at half time in the 1977 Grand Final Collingwood might have been too far ahead for North Melbourne to catch up in the second half.

If only Phil Carman had not telegraphed his intention of chasing and hitting Michael Tuck during the last quarter of the second semi he would have been able to play in the Grand Final. But he did telegraph his intentions and he ran after Michael Tuck and hit him and was therefore reported.

These are two personal reminisces that are If Only moments that come to mind.

If only Mozart had not died when he was 35 and had lived until he was 60 or 65 what wonderful music we would have to listen to. Hayden said when he learned that Mozart had died that we would not see his like again for 200 years. Actually he was wrong. We have not seen his like in 300 years and are not likely to see his like in 400 or 500 years. Mozart was a great composer who improved as he got older. It is arguable that his later compositions were better than his earlier compositions. What a pity we missed out on his work after he was aged 35.

Of course all our lives are littered with If Only moments.

In my 20's I travelled to work by tram. Every morning on this tram was an attractive young girl who got on at the same stop as I did and  always sat down the back of the tram. I often looked at her with interest. If only I had summoned up enough courage to approach her my life might have been different. But this is a hypothetical If Only and only subject to speculation.

The big If Only that has occurred in my life was something completely out of my control. When I was 14 my family fostered a 2 year old child who transformed our life. We were not a particularly dysfunctional family but it is fair to say that there were always pockets of unhappiness affecting all members. We did not enjoy each others company and were dominated by a mother who felt women always got an unfair deal. She would have preferred to be a man with men's rights. This little girl shamed us into being happy. My mother forgot about being unhappy and recognised the goodness inside this little girl. All other members of the family fell in love with her. It is fair to say that she affected us all in a positive way. She made us all happy.

The If Only comes with this child's later life. We made desultory inquiries about adoption but her mother wanted her back again. She went to live in Wagga and we never saw her again. Fast forward 50 years and miraculously I was able to track her down. Unfortunately her life had been one long series of tragedies. She had never lived for any length of time with her mother and amazingly had, for a time in her teens, even lived in Wangaratta.  While in Wangaratta she was charged with being in need of care and attention, spending time in goal after having run away from the Aunt with whom she was living at the time. This was only one of many terrible things that happened to her.

If Only we had known her whereabouts we might have been able to offer her some comfort. If only we had been able to keep in touch we might have been able to bring some stability to her life. If only we knew what was happening.

To my mind the big If Only in life concerns If Only people had voted differently. If only 3 or 4 people had changed their vote at various times our country would be different. We can only speculate how different Australia might be if the elections of 1966, 1975 and 2019 had turned out differently. There is no doubt that Australia would be a better place. From time to time changes are required and can only come through a change of government.

If Only people could overcame their prejudices and were able to vote differently.

History is littered with If Only situations.

Neville Gibb
​September 2019