”It won’t happen, it can’t, there must be a way to stop it.”
 
Mum and Dad didn’t agree with me, of course!  Dairy farmers wouldn’t I suppose!
 
Spring is the season of plenty on the farm – grass, milk and money!
 
Autumn, with pastures flourishing under gentle rain, precious calves being born, is an excellent season too.
 
Winter, well, is another matter.  Cold, muddy, wet and shortened dark days that are still filled with work.   But there is always rich food, warming fires and family to enjoy at the end of the day.
 
Summer!  I yearned for it.  Loved the feel of warmth on my tanning skin.  Holidays, Freedom, Happiness.
 
Mum and Dad hated summer!  Always the worry of not enough water in tanks and dams, dried off grass in paddocks where thin cows were torn between the shade of a tree or foraging hopelessly in the stubble underfoot.
 
It was the summer of 1967 and I was revelling in the heat of my favourite time of the year.  And, anticipating the long promised treat of a few days away at a beach.
 
School holidays were here and all was well in my summery, bright blue sky filled world. 
 
In my parents’ world it was a harsh blue sky which never relinquished even a squeezed out drop of moisture.  It was a severe drought.  A threatening heat haze hung continuously above the prickly brown pastures.
 
My Dad had stopped whistling and singing.  His eyes were squinted against the glare and had lost their habitual smile.
 
No water left at all!  An expensive delivery of drinking water signalled that Mum’s loved garden would soon look like the barren paddocks.
 
The cows stopped producing milk, looked emaciated.  There was no sustenance on the farm, all the hay was gone, none could be bought and now the dams were dried up.
 
Our mealtimes had always been animated with conversations about politics and current affairs.  For weeks now the grown ups discussions were intense. 
 
“It won’t happen!  It can’t!  It would be so wrong!  There has to be a way out, to stop it!”
 
Morose silence at the table now, people playing with their food.
 
Dad was weighted down with the decision which he had no choice but to make!
 
The bulldozer arrived early on the hot day and scraped a big hole in one of the paddocks.  A really BIG hole!
 
Bruce, the dog, was sent unwittingly on a Judas mission to round up 350 cows and move them into makeshift fenced yards adjacent to the gaping hole.
 
Bruce understood the order but acted tentatively, looking back constantly for reassurance from his revered master.  The old black and white dog obviously sensed the foreboding atmosphere simmering beneath the carefree blue sky.
 
Dad and Grandpa stood, one each side of the pit, with their shotguns and boxes of cartridges.
 
None of the family talked or ate that night.
 
The biggest tragedy in my parents’ lives lingered.  The effects lingered.  Dad, Mum, Grandpa and the dog were all lost, devastated.
 
But the summer sky was still an unsullied vivid blue.
 
I was sad when I thought of what had happened, of the many cows that my sister and I had hand reared as calves.
 
But I didn’t appreciate the enormity of what had happened.
 
Summer was beckoning still.
 
We travelled to Torquay.  Maybe a little beach holiday would lift everyone’s spirits.
 
Early next morning we were sprawled on the sandy beach, relaxing amongs many noisy holiday makers and seagull.  Many people had transistor radios blaring, including my father.
 
It was the 3rd February, 1967.
 
“We interrupt this program…”
“Ronald Ryan has just been hanged at Pentridge Prison.”
 
The entire crowd was shocked into complete silence.
 
Mum, Dad and Grandpa murmured in hushed tones…
 
“It DID happen, it can’t have happened, there must have been a way to stop it!”
 
Another hopeless tragedy.
 
Above, the bright blue sky and heat haze, continued to shimmer.
 
 
Jill Gaumann,
February 2023

It was summer in Australia, but mid-winter in Kamloops, British Columbia, Canada when I arrived for a year-long teacher exchange in late December 1981. 

While my exchangee John was learning to cope with a cottage on Wombat Hill in Daylesford without air conditioning in summer, with flies, tarantulas and other insects, I was learning to cope with snowy footpaths and icy roads, learning to understand and dress for chill factors. 

My beloved leather soled boots were completely inadequate.  I remember slipping and falling on my bottom as I first walked up the icy footpath towards the front doors of ‘Kam High’, much to the amusement of mingling students, many of whom arrived, cowboy hat and boots commonplace, in family pick up utes from nearby cattle ranches.

Another adjustment involved driving, not only on the right side of the road, but on icy winter roads.  John had left an old car, complete with snow tyres, in the basement garage for me to drive. My early attempts at driving on icy local roads featured the car slewing from side to side and my valiantly trying to put it back in the basement garage without wrecking it, before phoning a local driving instructor for some lessons in managing to drive on icy roads. ​

The staff arrived back from their Christmas/New Year break sharing stories of skiing adventures – downhill and cross country.  There were many ski-fields relatively close by – from the adventurous ‘Ski Tod’, Tod Mountain, with its 5-mile runs, to the learners’ hill at nearby Harper Mountain.

It wasn’t long before some friendly staff members, keen for me to enjoy my time in Canada, invited me to go with them to Harper Mountain while they were taking their children there to ski. 

I agreed, however was worried – I had never skied in my life!  I had also completely failed at ice skating, which apparently would have helped me to snow plough.  

Trying to look confident, I was measured for skis.  Skis on, I clumsily plodded towards the fairly primitive hand held pulley system which transported learners to the top of the hill.  My well intentioned friends disappeared to watch their children.  They were so used to snow, to skiing, to managing icy conditions, they didn’t think anyone would find it difficult!

​Before I knew it, I was valiantly clutching on to the steel rope and whizzing up the beginners’ hill.  Suddenly the pole at the top was looming. Then, a ‘freeze frame’ moment during which I realized that I needed to ski off, pronto!  How could possibly I let go of the cable I had been valiantly clutching for the past few minutes to ski on to the ski field?  I didn’t know how to ski!

Still in ‘freeze frame’ mode, I found myself wrapped around the ski pole, winded and disoriented, gratefully accepting bystander help to get up.  Not only was I wrapped around the pole, but my skis had become tangled and – where were my poles!
    
Another challenge loomed.  I was in no condition to keep skiing and needed to get down the mountain (beginners hill)…  But, I couldn’t … ski!!! 

What was I to do….??? Fortunately, someone gave me instructions about how to free style down the hill, knees bent, ski poles tucked by my side. 
 
I pushed off fearfully, free styling towards the first aid centre at the bottom of the hill.   For a fleeting moment I felt the adrenalin rush which leads others to become addicted to skiing, then managed to slow down without disgracing myself!

If I had my time again, I would have gone on to take lessons, as I had done to adjust to driving on icy roads. 

However, I never had my time again.  Wrapping myself around the pole had led to cracked ribs! I endeavoured to keep teaching during the six weeks they took to heal, however by then the snow season was over.

Although I never learnt to downhill ski, when wintery conditions returned later that year, I learnt to cross country ski.  While,never truly confident, I did enjoy following trails through snow covered pine forested areas near Kamloops.


Beverley Lee
February 2022

At 12 years of age, I decided to explore the life of a Farmer.

Around our small English village there were a number of farms, the closest about a mile and a half away.  I would wander up there on school holidays and weekends to have a look around.

I was always interested in cows. I liked watching them, they were always eating and then making room inside of themselves so they could eat some more.  If you know what I mean.

What a life I thought!  These cows were mainly milking cows - I guessed that by the size of their udders. I wondered ‘How did the milkman get the milk from these cows?’ I needed to get closer to the buildings to find out.

This farm had a quiet country road going through the middle of it.  At each end there was a big gate across the road, which drivers had to open and close as they went through.

A lot of drivers would drive through the gate, but not close it after them. This meant the cows would wander off through the open gate. On seeing this, I would find myself a decent stick, herd the cows back to the right side of the gate, then close it. It wasn’t too hard, they seemed to know that they shouldn’t have been outside the farm’s boundaries. This happened quite frequently.

One summer school holiday, I went to the farm gate and found it closed. It was a nice day, warm and sunny,  and I was bored. I thought to myself, ‘if I open the gate now, go home and have lunch, then come back and chase the cows back in, that would kill the afternoon’. That wasn’t the first time I had done that.

As usual, I went up to the farmhouse and let the farmer know about my good deed.

A big, tall, very rough looking man came to the door.  He was the boss.  I started to tell him what had happened, however he cut me off, saying, “if you are so bored, you keep letting the cows out, then chase them back in, I’d better give you a real job”.

I started work there and then.  The farmer took me round to a small barn, gave me a pitchfork and told me to throw the muck out into the yard. I did this, then later in the afternoon went with him to bring the cows in for milking. I was amazed, the cows were already coming towards the dairy by themselves. They even went into the dairy and into the individual stalls by themselves. Then the farmer showed me how to attach the equipment to the cow’s udder.

​After school, on weekends and school holidays, I would walk up to the dairy and help milk the cows for the next two years until February 1967.  Then I moved to Australia.

Tom Barnaby
​February 2023

​In March 1958 I transferred in my employment to the North Eastern district town of Wodonga.  As a single man I was looking for accommodation and it was recommended to me that I try the Carriers' Arms Hotel.  I had been boarding in a hotel in St. Arnaud, in the Wimmera, so it was a logical step.

The Carrier's licencees were a likeable couple, Kevin and Iris Howell.  They were welcoming to me, and I became a lodger.

In the 1950s the law prescribed '6 o'clock closing' for hotel trading.  However, this was a farce.  The bar would stop operating at 6 pm, but, on closing, the patrons would transfer from the bar to the 'cupboard' which was open to the saloon where they continued to serve lodgers and their guests until approximately 11 pm.

I soon discovered that the Carriers' was the 'watering hole' for members of the Wodonga Bowling Club, and so  became friendly with many bowlers and the club's hierarchy. It was only a matter of time before I was encouraged to become a 'lawn bowler'.

On joining the club in September, I found the coaches to be very welcoming and conscientious in teaching me to bowl.

To my surprise (I had never been known to have any sporting prowess), we discovered that I had a talent for lawn bowls.  And so, when the pennant season commenced, I was occasionally selected to play in the club's A1 team in the Ovens and Murray Association.

One of the Club's top skippers took me under his wing, and with two other A1 players, we would travel the countryside of a Sunday and enter the regular week-end tournaments, winning our fair share of them.

After the completion of the day's games, all three game winners would play off in a final series.  

One day, at the small country town of Gerogerie, which had no overhead lights, we reached the final series and ultimately the grand final.

As the whole competition had then taken a number of hours play, it became quite dark and difficult to see the bowls in the 'head'.  It became necessary for the skippers to light a match to show the team members where the 'kitty' was resting.  And so we had to bowl to the flame of the lighted match.

We won the tournament!  It was quite an interesting experience.

Outside of playing bowls, I was soon inducted as assistant secretary of the club.  This continued until 1961 when I was again transferred in my employment.  

In the longer term I returned to Benalla and naturally joined the bowls club.  I played in the Benalla 'Whites' A1 team, also in the Ovens and Murray Association, for more than twenty years.  As years have gone by, I have played in the lower grades and finally retired from Pennant in the early 2000's.  I have played more than 700 pennant games in my lifetime.

Over the period I have been active in club administration, having held positions such as Deputy Chairman of Directors, Finance Director, Club Secretary and secretary of the finance committee.

I am now a 'life member', but my bowling days are over.


Ray O'Shannessy
18 February 2023

A scream from outside had us all rushing to the front yard only to discover one of our children squealing with delight, dripping from head to toe. Seconds later the source of the water was revealed as a water canyon delivered a second round of saturating water over the boundary fence, missing a second child and landing on the driveway.

The battle lines were drawn as adults and children alike assembled our own artillery. Our meagre cache of water pistols proved no defence against the relentless barrage coming from the new water canyon next door. Buckets proved a better defence and soon our tall gates were closed to barricade us within the front yard. The children from next door outnumbered us three to one and yet we soldiered on determined to repel their advance on our fortress at number 13. Our two children and their two cousins were delighted to have the assistance of their parents. For more than 30 minutes we perfected our battle strategy, forming a human chain to pass buckets of water up the driveway with military precision.

Next door, Ruth and Bill’s grandchildren had also armed themselves with buckets. This, combined with the new water canyon should have guaranteed their side victory. Yet the battle raged on.

One by one our side had taken turns to man the front line only to become drenched. Down the line, the next person would insist on taking their turn at the gate. Time and time again we switched positions. A strategy that was then adopted by the enemy. Delighted children taking their turn at the tap, replaced by a cousin, sister or brother taking turns to climb our front gates and deliver their load to the unsuspecting combatant on the other side.

Suddenly everything fell silent. On our side of the fence, we held our collective breath.  “Get yourselves inside now. You are saturated!” said Ruth, pointing out the obvious. “You’ll put on your pyjamas and play quietly in the back room until lunch is ready.”

With one firmly spoken command, Ruth had ruled a line in the sand. Clearly, this was not
acceptable behaviour on Christmas Day.

Sheepishly, we retreated to the relative cool of the lounge room. The children, deliciously cool., were now ravenous. Leftovers from our Christmas Eve feast sated their hunger.
Leaving them drowsy and content. Laughter filled the room as we all exclaimed at Ruth’s
wrath. We pictured the grandchildren now clad in pyjamas sitting around the table for the
family's Christmas Lunch, the image causing us to double over laughing.

Our memory of that hot Christmas Day, more than 25 years ago lives on in our memories.
Every gathering marks another occasion to relive the frivolity of that hot Christmas Day.
​The years may have dimmed the accuracy of the detail, but not the unbridled fun of our battle. 


Michelle Aitken
February 2023

​The Season that usually had the most impact on my life was summer. Like most rural homes in the 1960’s there was no effective cooling. During the very hot nights, our father would move the bedding for my brother and myself, out into the back of the ute, where we would sleep for the night, under the shade of the carport and in any breeze that might be around.

I can remember my father calling at the water stand pipe in Epping on his way home from work, almost daily, to fill milk cans with water for the garden. On his arrival home it was ‘all hands on deck’, to bucket the water from the milk cans to the various parts of the garden, with the vegetable patch being the main priority. However, when the dam water had dried up, we also had to put water in the trough for the house cow.

In later years, I would be sent off by train to my Uncle’s properties in the Mallee area of the state to assist with the harvest. This was usually at the height of summer. The main duties were to assist with the loading of the grain from the headers into the trucks. At this time, about 1962, there was a transition from bag to bulk delivery of grain to the silos. The old headers that were still in use could only unload into bags. These were stacked in central area with easy access from the road. The trucks were fitted with what was known as a G-well hoist. This hoist was driven by hydraulics and lifted the open bags from the ground up above the sides of the bulk body on the truck. The grain would run out of the bag into the bulk bin, and two small hooks on the cradle would catch the bottom of the empty bag and return it in the loader cradle to the ground. The system worked fine until the bulk load level got up to a certain height, when the partially emptied bag would contact the top of the load and the bag would be pushed upwards and off the two retaining hooks. The solution was to empty the bag manually on top of the load, and drop it back to the ground. This needed to be done with some degree of urgency, as my Uncle’s would take great delight in loading the next bag quickly, and if I was not fast enough getting the first bag emptied, I would have two bags to deal with. 

The days during harvest were long, weather permitting. However, I do remember one year in the middle of harvest, where there were a series of days in excess of 40 deg. C. On these days my Uncles would not even start machinery for fear that it would start a fire, and given the considerable distances between farms and the local town based fire brigade, it was a very wise move. Although the original homestead was built with veranda’s all around, there was no form of cooling. The only way that we could escape the midday heat, was to open the front and back doors to allow any breeze through the house and to all lay down in the central hallway.

I also recall playing tennis on days when the asphalt courts would start to melt and stick to our tennis shoes. The days when fires would start, and as volunteers, we headed off to fight the fire without fire proof personal protective clothing, or heat shielding on the fire trucks.

The summer season has most certainly provided some long lasting memories.


Barry O’Connor.
18th February 2023

​A most memorable paradigm shift in my thinking, occurred during a time I was staying in Hamilton, Western Victoria.

My partner and I decided to visit the Grampians

Nestled in the very heart of the Grampians or Gariwerd National Park, I discovered the delightful village of Halls Gap.

A couple of kilometers from Halls Gap can be found the:  Brambuk The National Park and Cultural Centre (parks.vic.gov.au)

The National Park and Visitor Centre celebrates the life and heritage of the Jadawadjali and Djab Wurrung language groups.

Outside the Centre is a descriptive narrative of the life the First Nations people and in particular  the significance of changes in weather, flora and fauna.

There are six (not four) distinct weather periods recognised in the Brambuk seasonal cycle. These are genuine seasons which relate to climatic features as well as referencing environmental events such as plant flowering, fruiting and animal behaviour patterns. As nomadic families and groups, the Jadawadjali  and Djab Wurrung would have structured their lives around these seasons.

In differentiating these six seasons, the Bureau of Metereology (BOM), presumably in consultation with representatives of local First Nations people, has created a Gariwerd calendar

Gariwerd calendar - Indigenous Weather Knowledge - Bureau of Meteorology (bom.gov.au)

I will hand out copies of this at conclusion.

I can only imagine how invaluable this information would have been for those white settlers who found a means to accommodate and were accommodated by the original inhabitants.

In preparing for this memoir I have made some other interesting discoveries.

For some other First Nations Peoples, the CSIRO has produced a number of seasonal weather maps.  

This seasonal map covers what we call the Kimberley region of Western Australia.  In this calendar are represented four seasons.

Gooniyandi seasons calendar - CSIRO
​
My personal paradigm shift up in the Grampians, was both humbling and illuminating.

After visiting the Brambuk at Halls Creek, I moved to the Far South Coast of New South Wales, and for the first time, I had a deep sense of moving onto another’s country. I did not then know how to acknowledge country, but since that experience, acknowledgement of country has been important for me.

At the moment on my Zoom tag, I identify myself, for ease of convenience, as Graham Jensen living on Yorta Yorta land.

Finally, to develop and encourage broader discussion, the CSIRO has offered, for discussion,  a five one season schema reflecting a more informed appreciation of Australian weather and an acknowledgement of our changing weather patterns

The following five seasons model for southern Australia was developed by Tim Entwhistle
– Director of Melbourne’s Botanical Gardens
 
Summer:         December – March     - reflecting our longer Summer
 
Autumn           April – May   
 
Winter             June –July
 
Sprinter           August – September   - reflecting Spring flowering in August
 
Sprummer       October-November     - a time of changeable weather and storms
 
I am not sure whether this model will catch on but we do still have much to learn about our own natural environment. Initiatives from BOM and CSIRO, in consultation, with First Nations people, continue to expand my appreciation of this land, of who we are, where we have come from and how climate change is impacting on our daily lives.


Graham Jensen
February 2023

We had Nasi Goreng for dinner and then added an extra blanket or two to her bed

The next day we were off to our Op. Shop to purchase several warm jumpers. That night we taught Cut to play Rummy which she really enjoyed – no obligation to continually get her English right and a chance to show her competitive spirit. It wasn’t the last game of Rummy that we had.

It was the second last day of the school holidays so we visited a couple of friends with daughters who would be in Cut’s class to introduce her and ask them to keep a lookout for her. School returned and I walked over with Cut and we found her classroom. The school had been very flexible and were happy to have her when she wasn’t elsewhere. She came home excited and reported that she’d had lunch with Bethany.

Don and I were teaching weekly Indonesian classes at a couple of primary schools and we took Cut along once or twice, much to the joy of the students. I was also teaching at the army barracks and enjoyed taking her there on one occasion.

We visited the Guides who met over the road, the Indonesian who taught language at the high school and other families who were keen to make friends. We visited the bush and Ettamogah Sanctuary with emus and kangaroos. We went to the snow at Falls Creek and made a snowman and threw snowballs.