​My predicament was that the two car garage on the property that we purchased in 2017 was not insulated. The main problem was that the roof was very low, painted dark grey, and the temperature inside the garage was oppressive on sunny days, usually being over ten to twelve degrees higher that the outside atmospheric temperature.

What could I do to reduce the temperature inside the building, so that I could work in the garage on sunny days? It was all a bit too hard, so I parked the project for a number of months until I could think through the processes required.

First attempt: install a rotary roof ventilator. Yes, it did reduce the temperature a little, but not enough. 

Second attempt: paint the exterior of the roof white. Again, a modest reduction in temperature was achieved, but still not enough.

Third attempt: explore the possibilities of installing some form of insulation material under the roof without having to remove the roof sheeting to do so. A number of options were explored, however many options were cost prohibitive. Parking the project up for a few more months allowed me to consider some unusual options. During my working career I had a dealer who kept his workshop cool by spraying water onto the roof of the workshop. The water was recovered into a large storage tank and a pressure pump recycled it in a volume that allowed the water to cool in the tank before being resprayed on the roof. The system worked fine until there were a series of exceptionally hot days and the water would not cool sufficiently to provide the required cooling effect on the workshop roof. The cost of installing such a system on my garage roof would prove to be cost prohibitive.

Having restored a number of cars and trucks over the years, my next thought was to cover the underside of the roof with automotive sound deadening and heat reduction material. This material is a three layer product with aluminium reflective sheet on the face, a ten millimetre thick foam centre layer, and then an adhesive layer. This product can be found on the underbody of most cars and is normally used under the bonnet and boot lids and inside the doors to reduce heat and noise in the passenger compartment.

The next step was to locate a suitably sized product that could be used on the shed. A product was located and other than some minor trimming, was in a size that could be installed with a minimum of fuss. Well, maybe not a minimum!

How do I install this product on my own and still have the sheets aligned correctly to the roof?

An installation process was then developed. Firstly, I needed to align the cut sheet to the underside of the roof panels. It was impossible for one person to install the two and three metre long sheets with the entire adhesive protection layer removed, and have them aligned correctly. Light bulb moment, use 10mm thick bamboo plant stakes to hold the sheet, with the adhesive protective layer in place, and position the sheet in the required location. The next step was to lower the first one metre of the insulation and remove the adhesive protective backing from the sheet and then stick the insulation to the roof. A paint roller on an extension pole ensured that the entire adhesive surface made contact with the underside of the roof. The process was to then lower the insulation one metre at a time and repeat the process, until all of the insulation was attached to the roof. Just to ensure that the insulation stays put, I reinserted the bamboo garden stakes.

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

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

Margaret Nelson
​March 2021

I don’t make use of a ‘too hard basket’. I do, however, have a ‘basket’ where I put things that I will never get round to doing because I have lost interest, have more important things to do (like memoir writing), or for numerous other reasons.
 
I first discovered this basket many years ago when I was employed. The department where I worked had an ongoing problem attracting and keeping Finance Managers. This was due to the Director being a bully. I was never the subject of his bullying. He was always very pleasant to me. He even came to my retirement gathering, which was most unusual. Perhaps he was pleased to see the last of me. However, he was the cause of several people leaving and/or having a nervous breakdown.
 
As a result of the constant changing of Finance Managers and the absence of anyone working in that role, often for a few weeks, some of the work became backlogged. Then another new person was employed to fill the position. She was a bully too. The first day she started work she was like tornado, creating havoc and upsetting several staff. Clearing the backlog was her priority, but it wasn’t part of her plan to do it herself. There was a pile of documents on her desk, left there by previous incumbents. They needed to be filed.  The pile was about 60cm high. She picked them up and took them to me “Elizabeth, file these” she said.
 
Out of some deep recess of my mind came my response. “You see that basket over there,” I said pointing to an unused basket. “Put them there. That’s where I put things I will never have time to do.” She gave me a strange look, put the documents in the basket and walked away. I had no intention of doing her filing. I had enough of my own to do. She never bothered me again.   
 
She stayed in the job for about fourteen months. The day she left, I picked up the pile of documents and placed them back on the Finance Manager’s desk.
 
Ever since that day I have made use of this expedient ‘basket’. Currently it contains two unfinished patchwork quilts, several recipes, photos, a photo album and a half crocheted jumper. Someday, if I live long enough, I may finish one or both quilts. The photos will never go into the album. I have discovered online photo books. The recipes will never see the light of day. I love reading about delicious meals but I don’t like cooking. I considered the jumper too old fashioned and abandoned it. Someday I may unpick it and use the yarn for a different project.
 
In the meantime, exercise classes, writing and genealogy which has just been retrieved from the above ‘basket’, is taking precedence.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

Elizabeth Kearns
​March 2021
​

The sun is struggling to make its way out from the heavy cloud cover. The chill is exacerbated by a strong breeze and the jacket I am wearing is inadequate for this autumn day in Paris. I wished I had held onto the vintage camel coat I hurriedly sent back to Australia while on a layover in Singapore. Typical of me I’d overpacked and then worried that it would be a continual problem as I circumnavigated the globe to get to my ultimate destination in Houston, Texas.

Why-oh-why am I so plagued by indecision about such irrelevant things? In my “day job,” I’m highly regarded as being able to make quick and sound business decisions, but in my personal life, the opposite is frequently true. Today is a perfect example.  

I’d arrived in London just 48 hours before expecting that this morning my sister and I would be here in Paris together. I was relying on her knowledge of French, and confidence in navigating Paris when she announced that she had to attend business meetings and would not be joining me. Her announcement hit me for six as I weighed up the pro’s and con’s of simply staying in Kent. Embarrassed at my hesitation I simply went along with her plans to get me to Ashford Station where I would catch the Eurostar to Paris.  

Once onboard the train, I was again plagued by indecision. Would it be safe to leave my bag and go to the loo? What if I got thirsty? How would I find my hotel? In desperation, I pulled out the well worn “Lonely Planet Guide To Paris” that Helen had pressed into my hand as she rushed off to her meetings. I skimmed the pages trying to settle my nerves. Finally finding some sort of calm I sat back and tried to enjoy the landscape flying past the train’s window.

​Arriving at Grande Norde I joined the long line to purchase a local Metro Ticket. The line crept forward at a snail pace until I was next to be served. Listening in on the conversation of the travellers in front of me I realised that my schoolgirl French would be of no use. Even if I could make myself understood I had absolutely no chance of understanding the rapid-fire French that the ticket seller was using.  

My turn. I hesitated before stepping forward.

“Excusez-moi s'il vous plaît parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked.

My fumbling apology worked like magic and I was soon on my way with a ticket to the Metro. Having already memorised the route I needed to take I sought out the correct line and followed the crowd to the platform. The train trip was remarkably fast, just three or so stations before I alighted my carriage. I needed a taxi to take me the rest of the way - the novice travellers get out of jail free card when faced with no idea which way to go. But where would I find one? The appeared to be three exits and I had no idea of my direction Too Hard Basket Michelle Aitken given that my journey thus far had been underground. I took a chance on the exit to my right and reached street level. Changing my mind I referenced the map on display on the street and quickly found my way. Growing in confidence with every step.

Above ground, I was curious at the random nature of French driving etiquette. Here, cars moved at an alarming speed as cyclists and pedestrians jostled for space on the too narrow streets. Quintessential French architecture with glorious attic floors capping off the buildings looked down on the cobbled footpaths, tree’s softened the landscape, their colourful autumn leaves scattered on the path. Patrons sat at cafe’s with their chairs facing the street they appeared to be spectators watching the day’s parade play out before them. The confusing puzzle of streets, so different from the ordered boulevards of Melbourne, while charming presented as another cause for confusion. Determined to enjoy the moment I took in my surroundings and decided that I was glad I had fought my hesitation and come to Paris. It took no time to work out that I’m only a few blocks from my hotel which is a charming old bank converted into a pleasant hotel.

Aware that I was arriving too early to check-in I negotiated to leave my bags with the hotel porter and, armed with my research set off in search of the antique fabric markets. This is my mission here in Paris, to attend a renowned flea market which is only open on Monday (today) and Sunday. It is here that I have read that astute buyers can snap up century’s old fabrics and laces. This is the treasure I seek. Noting that it is already almost noon, I feel a sense of urgency to get to my  ​destination. Another Metro train took me to the chilly Paris quarter.  

I’d left behind the Paris of postcards and ventured into a part of town that seemed seedier - edgier.    The buildings, no longer quaint, were rather utilitarian insults to architecture. Graffiti disfigured their walls and the functional footpath found no room for trees or cafes. Following my own handwritten directions, I quickly found the flea market, trying to muster an air of confidence as I wandered among the trash and treasure.

It was not at all what I expected. Instead of the old vintage wares I had been dreaming of, the market was full of what can only be described as junk. Vendors seemed to have simply spread a rug on the ground and proceeded to lay out their wares. Some specialised with many selling records and tape cassettes. Elsewhere clothing stands were selling a mixture of T-shirts influenced by American Gang culture, and exotic African tribal clothes. Well worn household items and cheap imports fought for space while the stall attendants were either in animated, loud conversations or quietly projecting an air of disinterest. Boomboxes belted out music at full volume and in the distance overland trains rattled noisily by. Here and there, the car’s tried to navigate the narrow streets the bleating of their horns swallowed up by the general chaos.

I became aware that I looked like a tourist with my camera slung around my neck and tried to camouflage it under my scarf. I doubted it worked and pulled my backpack around to the front of my chest lest some unsavoury character decided to help himself to my passport and money.

I wandered like this for an hour or so hoping that I would eventually find the promised vintage fabrics that I had come all the way from Melbourne to find. Finally, I gave in mentally and decided that my research had been wrong. I had been careful to keep the elevated rail in my sightline and made to retrace my steps back to the metro station. Crossing the narrow road to feign interest in the stallholders wares I chastised myself for my foolishness. How could I have been so dumb to think that I would find the treasure I so wanted to discover with no knowledge of the language or the place? For now, this was definitely an experience to put into the too hard basket.  

The battle in my head continued for several minutes. One half of me wanted to return to the hotel and resume “normal” tourist routines the next day, the other wanted to relax and enjoy the Too Hard Basket Michelle Aitken experience I found myself in and make the best of the situation. Finally, I resolved to do both enjoying the situation while retreating to the safety of my hotel.

Putting my camera safely into my bag, and returning it to my back I took in my surroundings.

The market stalls were predominantly on the left of the road. On the right side was a mixture of shop fronts and warehouses. The further I walked along the street the more the warehouses took over from the shops. I came to a warehouse where a side door was open. Curious, I peered through the door to find that it opened not to a warehouse but to another street. From my vantage point, I could see that the shop on the corner is selling textiles, beyond that there are other shops selling household items, one had a display of metal objects that I couldn’t quite make out. I looked to my left, then my right and after realising that no one was paying any attention to me, I took a bold step through the door.

The world that unfolded could not have been more different from the flea market I had left behind. Here the Paris of my reference books came to life with narrow laneways lined with tiny shops, their wares spilling out of the shop and on to the street. So narrow were the streets that I could stretch out and reach both sides with my fingertips. My first discovery was a shop selling vintage and antique clothes. Bonnets hung from the walls and racks of musty smelling clothes their collars stained with decades of perspiration were sorted by style filled the shop and spilt onto the footpath. I reached for a discoloured cotton nightdress wondering at its story. Who had owned this nightdress? What was their story? The tag revealed that it was dated circa the 1800s and I felt a bubble of excitement rise up. I had found the very “market” I had set out to uncover. 

For the next three hours, I wandered in and out of the shops I had found. Undeterred by the chilly autumn breeze I revelled in the discovery I had made. Here there are buttons and lace, over there, vintage and antique bed linen. On the corner was a reclamation yard with antique iron baths stacked 10 high. Around the corner a shop with old china dolls and threadbare teddy bears. Each new shop beckoned me to enter and discover it’s rich bounty. I spent my money carefully, discovering that my euro would be covered to old French francs in transactions that I suspect favoured the shopkeeper more than me. Carefully selecting a few pieces of cloth, two bonnets and some old lace collars I​s I negotiated like a pro, using shaky French and lots of hand gestures to make myself understood.  

As dusk drew in I retraced my steps to the Metro and on to the hotel where my small, but perfectly formed room waited.

The remnants of fabric and collection of collars I acquired on that day now hang, framed in my bedroom. On days when indecision threatens to overwhelm me, I take moment wth my collection and remember that day in 2012 visiting Paris. The lesson I learned that autumn day in Paris has gone with me and, on days when I have that battle in my head, more often than not it is the confidence not to put life into the too hard basket that wins.


Michelle Aitken
​March 2021 ​

Last month, when I saw the titles of the writing assignments which Bev proposed, I shuddered.

“One moment, this Year.”  Whoa!  This is beyond me!

“A love letter to travel.”  Impossible!  How could I write a love letter to travel?

Both topics belonged in the “too hard basket”.

Then I read that we could write about one place in the world that is special to us.  A saviour!  Then Bev suggested to me that Benalla might fit the bill and she was so right.  Benalla is my adopted home town and I love it.

Instead of writing a love letter, could I write a narrative of what Benalla has done for me?

Benalla became home to me when, as a seventeen year old school leaver, I started my first job.
Initially I spent five years boarding in George Street with Frank and Eileen Elliot.  They were a kind and generous couple who gave me a home.  In fact, in 1953 when I turned 21, they gave me a surprise 21st birthday party and invited all my friends.

I settled into work and became acquainted with many people, including in particular the girls working on the telephone exchange.

My first friend was Don Smith, another teenager, who worked on the railways.  Don and I regularly went to the Saturday night dances, and occasionally went fishing.

At the Elliots’ home I befriended another boarder by the name of Bill Keenan.  Bill, like me, was a clerk and we had a lot in common.  Bill’s girlfriend, Margaret Hernan, had a brother Kevin with whom I also became friendly.  Each week-end I would go out with both of them to the Hernan’s farm.  Their mother, Mrs. Francy Hernan, was a special person and made me feel as though I was one of the family.  My relationship with the Hernans has lasted a lifetime.

I was asked to propose the toast to all the Hernan siblings on their 21st birthdays.  Until I married I used to act as Santa Claus at the Hernan Christmas lunch.  I was a family member, and now, at 88 years of age, I still have a wonderful relationship with the surviving members of that family.

I transferred in my job for a period of eight years until I returned in 1963.  Over that period I was still in regular contact with the Hernans.

On returning to Benalla I renewed acquaintance with my debutante partner’s sister, Bernadette, and married her in 1967.

I tired of my job with the stock agency company and transferred to a chartered Accountancy practice.  For six years I studied by correspondence and qualified as a Chartered Accountant.  I became a partner/principal in the firm until my retirement in the year 2000.  My experience in this situation was very fulfilling.

Outside of my business activities I became a member of the River Gums Estate Syndicate and developed 150 building blocks on the corner of Samaria and Kilfeera Roads.

I joined the Benalla Bowls Club in 1963 and am now a “life member”.

I joined the Rotary Club in 1985 and am now a “honorary” member.

My wife and I employed a local builder to build our residence in 1967 and we still live there.

In the early 1970’s I was deeply involved with the erection of the Ballandella Centre and over the years have held executive positions in somewhat like 30 different non-business organisations.  For this involvement I have been awarded an Order of Australia Medal, OAM, “for service to the community of Benalla”.

Bernadette and I have raised a family of four children in Benalla.  They have all been educated at Ride Avenue Kindergarten; St. Joseph’s Primary School and FCJ College, then to Galen College in Wangaratta.

Since retirement I have been a regular member of U3A and Probus and have continued to enjoy my life in Benalla.

Benalla has been good to me, and I proudly say it is a place that is “special” to me.
​
And so, I have avoided the “Too Hard Basket” topic, but have I cheated?
 
Ray O’Shannessy
28 February 2021
 

​It’s 2 am in the morning, I’m wide awake in my bed in the shared house I returned to after almost a year teaching English in Madrid.  I’d spent almost a year working and travelling in Spain while waiting to take up a place in into a graduate nursing program at Stobhill Hospital in Glasgow.  Before I left for Spain I had been so energised about my new nursing career, about training in Scotland, the home of my paternal forebears, but now here I was, back in England, unable to sleep as I tortured myself wondering whether I was doing the right thing going ahead.

I’d come back to looking forward to spending a few months in the house in Westover Road, Clapham, which I’d had such fun sharing with a group of young Cambridge Law graduates before going to Spain.  I was shocked to find the household breaking up.  People were moving on; there seemed to be a change in the power dynamics in the house; Gavin was more openly using drugs.  I’d had to cope when another housemate, normally so reserved, came in to my bedroom one night when he’d been drinking too much; and with pressure to enter a relationship with Bernie, a happy and friendly New Zealander, at a time when I was grieving the breaking up of a relationship in Spain.  Westover Road, my only base in London now that many of my expat friends had returned to Australia, was fraught with problems.  I began to long for my friends in Australia.

I found the London I’d loved so crowded, so very crowded!  Walking the streets, relatively empty when left in late September the previous year, wasn’t relaxing.  The perpetual queueing during August, the busiest month in London’s tourism year, frustrated me immensely.  I began to long for the less crowded streets of Melbourne.  I increasingly felt that these weren’t ‘my streets’, the people weren’t ‘my people’.

I longed to see my mother and mourned for my beloved grandmother who had died while I was overseas.  Both my sister and brother had remarried while I was away, their lives moving on, with blended families keeping them so busy.  My only connections to Australia were my new brother-in law John’s parents in Manchester.  I had visited them in their ‘2 up 2 down’ in Manchester a number of times before going to Spain and was quick to visit them again on my return to England. They played me a tape of my sister’s children, who were just 6 to 8 at the time.  I felt that I was ‘missing out’.  

Throughout this time I was investigating fob watches and nursing shoes, and searching out a car to take me to Scotland and use for the next two years.  I found myself delaying these purchases, putting them off. 

One evening, Phil, a share house friend I had travelled to France with, sat down with me at the kitchen table at Westover Rd over a cup of tea.  Suspecting I was depressed, he listened to me, then said, “Bev, I suspect you are incredibly homesick and might need to go home”…  I hadn’t identified it so clearly.  Phil’s diagnosis was ‘spot on’.   Feelings of home sickness had increasingly to begun sweep over me, sometimes in gentle, slow running waves, at others in huge, overwhelming, dumping breakers. 

I had to make a decision about what to do.  Reflecting over the next few days, I began to see that I would be unlikely to last the distance in Scotland, feeling as I did, that it would be selfish to take up a place in a course I may well decide to leave.  It was all just too hard.  I decided to withdraw from the course, return to Australia and resume teaching. 

I put pursuing a nursing career in my ‘Too Hard’, basket!

Bev Lee
March 2021