The U.S. Open Golf Championship has been played recently. When I am asked if I play golf I sometimes say, “I’ve played at Royal Melbourne.” The golfers look at me with admiration and ask what my handicap is. Then I explain.

When I was at primary school at Black Rock during World War 2, my friends were Italian children who lived in an old house in the bush up Cheltenham Rd. Their father was a prisoner of war who  worked on farms at Tatura and their mother worked long hours in a factory. I sometimes went home with them at school lunch time.

The Royal Melbourne Golf Club is also at the end of Cheltenham Rd. This is in the days of petrol rationing. The members catch the tram to Black Rock and are picked up by a horse drawn coach that takes them up the scrub lined road to the Club.

It’s on the kid’s way home from school. When they hear the horse approaching at a stately trot they hide in the bushes. When it’s abreast they leap out, calling out in high falsetto voices, leaping alternately into the air. I am given a place in the leaping order. It’s a very impressive operatic performance and someone is always in mid air; great choreography. The horse is a big fiery, half draught chestnut mare. When we leap out she turns her head to look at us, rolls the whites of her eyes, shies across the road and then bolts. The driver is a big man with a red face who wrestles with the reins; he looks as if he has no sense of humour. The coach is completely enclosed in black canvas blinds so the golfers can’t see what’s going on!

We sometimes jump in the bunkers on the way back to school. A running jump over the edge and you’re airborne like a bird, then land on your heels and slide down the beautiful white sand. If the golfers see us they run at us, shouting and waving golf clubs in the air! We don’t understand why they get so excited.

Somehow Mother gets to hear of these escapades. I am sent to a polite girl’s school at Sandringham. It's a culture shock!

Two years later my sister goes to work in the office at the Royal Melbourne Golf Club. The green keeper, who used to burst into the office before important golf tournaments, fuming about those damn kids in the bunkers again, is off work with high blood pressure.

The horse drawn coach no longer runs up Cheltenham Rd. The horse Ginger has been retired because of her dangerous behaviour. She would bolt up the road and into the long driveway to the Clubhouse at flat gallop, and then stop dead on a white line that the coach wasn’t meant to cross, causing the members who were seated in the back to be thrown onto the floor!
I was eight, for us it wasn’t malicious, just a lot of fun and it was only a game. 

Bev Morton
​November 2020

'Challenged' ... a story about Christmas and Easter Dues triggered in my memory when talking to someone who always seems to want to be superior... 
​
When I was child in the 1940s and early 1950s there were loosely five classes of people. The upper classes who lived in mansions and had servants, followed by the middle classes who were business people and farmers with larger farms. Not huge farms, but not ten or twenty acres either. The doctors, solicitors, and teachers were part of this class too.   The next group was the working class, labourers, shop workers, truck drivers, cooks, seamstresses, and a host of other occupations. These people lived mainly in cottages. Then there were the people who had ‘come down’ in the world and those who had ‘gone up’ in the world.
 
Every Christmas and Easter, parishioners were expected to contribute to the upkeep of the greater institution of the church. This was in the form of ‘Dues’. At Mass on a Sunday soon after the day the ‘Dues’ were paid the priest read the names of the head of each family and the amount they had contributed.
 
Patrick Brady, as I will call him, was one of those people who had ‘come up’ in the world. He was not a well-liked man, being a harsh employer. He paid very low wages and his employees had to work long hours. Even we children didn’t like him. The biggest, juiciest sloes grew on the blackthorn hedges in one of his fields. If he discovered we had been in his field he would complain to our teacher.
 
Twice a year, every year, his name would be top of the list when the priest read out the names of the donors. Patrick Brady - one pound. Then came the names of the upper classes. Samuel Moore - 15 shillings, Michael Rigby - 15 shillings followed by the middle classes, several names - 10 shillings. The next block of names was the vast bulk of the parishioners, mainly families where the husband/father was fully employed. So and So - 5 shillings. After that came the 2 shilling and sixpence (half a crown) contributors. Finally the names of a couple of widows with very little income, Mrs. A – one shilling, Mrs. B – one shilling.
 
This was the norm year after year. People barely listened. Everybody knew what each family had given or if they had not given anything (horror of horrors).
 
One Christmas it all changed and it sure caused a stir. The priest read;
William Devine – Three pounds.
Patrick Brady - One pound.
The rest of the list was as usual.
 
The Devine’s had come ‘down in’ the world, but now with their children finished school they must have been on the way up again. The community considered them a peculiar family, not like most of the other families. For a start they named one of their boys ‘Virgil’. They liked to do their own thing no matter what the local community thought.
 
Everybody knew Patrick Brady would be ‘ropable’ at being pushed into second place. He thought being top of the list gave him supremacy.
 
There was great anticipation what would happen with the Easter ‘Dues’.
I think not one family missed Mass on the Sunday of the reading of the Easter contributions.
The priest read;
Patrick Brady – five pound and continued down the list to William Devine – 10 shillings.
 
People were delighted. Patrick Brady had been made to pay fitting ‘dues’, both those to place him at the top of the list and some of what he owed society. It would be difficult for him to return to his usual donation of one pound.
 
But the Devine’s weren’t done yet. The following Christmas the game continued;
William Devine – eight pounds.
Patrick Brady – five pounds.
 
Then at Easter;
Patrick Brady - Ten pounds.
William Devine – 10 shillings.
And that’s where it stayed. ☺
 
 
Elizabeth Kearns
​November 2020

​Triggers! Really! Sounds like a horse or a dog. But my last story has triggered many more memories of Glenferrie and Hawthorn in the 1950s. 

Despite our stage three lockdown restrictions with only four reasons to leave home, I’ve snuck out and  illegally driven to Wangaratta to the Park Lane Plant Nursery to buy more Bergenia and what a surprise--- they had red flowering varieties. And I bought a rhubarb crown. Red must be the in colour and that brings me back to the red bricks of the Glenferrie of my early childhood, from about 1952 to 1955.

Of course the district is built of brick. The speckled Hawthorn bricks are famous and are still highly sought after. Melbourne sits on a rich basalt layer and by the 1860s there were fifty brickyards in Melbourne. Bricks slowly replaced the huge quantities of bluestone that were quarried as the bricks were lighter.

The open gutter lined with Bergenias in our back yard then carried the household water waste to the laneway at the rear. Attached to the building was our smelly outhouse and all the laneways were there in part to give access to the night man. And beside that was a huge patch of rhubarb. So I’m planting another memory.

I vaguely remember eating stewed rhubarb or stewed apple or plum. Everything was stewed and bottled then. How I survived I can only wonder. For school lunch there was a pork sausage and sauce sandwich one day of the week. The next day was sauce only. Next day was a banana sandwich and the next day was a sugar sandwich. One day a week I was given threepence to get a lunch order that was written out on a brown paper bag. Mum never knew but I didn’t ever hand it in. I used the threepence to buy a cream bun with a dollop of jam in it. They are still made the same, well they look the same. I think we really got by on the daily dose of Hypol and Saunders Malt to take up any vitamin slack.

​I watched the children enjoying themselves at the newly opened Splash Park and it brought a smile to my face to see the brand new colourful equipment, and the clean, crystal clear water. It triggered a memory of the fun times we had all through the summer, down at our local pool. Our swimming pool was a far cry from the pristine pool and splash park the kids enjoy today.

I am not sure when it was actually built, but it was one of the earliest and biggest ones around, with a length of 44 yards and 22 yards in width. The sides were brick, the bottom was gravel and the shallow end had a rusty old pipe running along the bricks as a kick bar to aid children and non swimmers. The water came in from the lake situated above the pool.  It certainly wasn’t crystal clear and there was no way we could see the bottom, which made diving for things a challenge.

The biggest challenge, however was keeping clear of the leeches. It meant we had to keep moving while we were in the water, otherwise we’d find the black bloodsuckers hanging from our leg, which meant splashing vigorously until it dropped off. The young boys would catch them and pass the time turning them inside out on sticks and lining them up in the sun.

Just before the ladder halfway down the length of the pool there was a slide which provided hours of fun, and the kids came up with all sorts of ways to come down it into the water. I can’t remember any accidents and I must point out that there was no adult supervision other than a parent or two that may have accompanied their child or came for a swim themselves. Warm weekends meant the pool was enjoyed by many of the locals.

Each summer Chiltern hosted a carnival attracting swimmers from visiting towns. It was a big affair and the kiosk was opened to provide drinks, ice creams and other refreshments. There were events including breast stroke, backstroke, butterfly and relays, but the most popular to watch were the diving events and the skill demonstrated on that springboard.

Besides the big annual event the town held its own night carnival for the locals and the pool was lit up by green metal lights strung across the water. I competed in some of the events and am proud to confess to winning places in events including the diving. But the most exciting prize was the duck. The final event open to all was the Duck Hunt, where everyone lined up around the pool and someone released a duck in the middle. Everyone jumped in to try to catch the poor scared duck, which swam in all directions. I caught it once (only because it swam towards me), which meant I got to keep it. Although father rigged up a pen to keep it overnight, it was gone by morning.  I could only hope it wasn’t a fox’s breakfast.

I am pleased to report that there were no drownings or diseases eventuating from our times in the pool, except for the odd earache. The only precaution taken was the pool was drained and cleaned during the season.

​
Betty Milligan
November 2020

In the back of a wardrobe I recently came across an old apron, one of my mother’s many aprons. It was a dainty floral cotton material, edged with green bias binding, made in a wrap-around style with two large pockets. I associated aprons with my mother and grandmothers, who were great believers in keeping their clothes clean and tidy.
                                                                                                  
Thinking about the history of aprons over the years, they were basically to protect clothes, especially in the times when women didn't have an extensive wardrobe of dresses, and laundering was an arduous chore. Aprons had many other uses as well. When cleaning house odds and ends could be collected in the huge pockets, and small toys picked up. When unexpected visitors were sighted coming up the path a room could be hastily tidied, things stashed in pockets and the apron hastily pushed behind a cushion in time to answer the door.                                                                        

In the garden, those large pockets carried small forks, seed packets, and vegetables. Around the farm yard eggs could be carefully carried in the pockets. Shy children could hide under mother’s apron and it was even used for wiping runny noses.   
​                                                                           
School  and church fetes would have been bare without an array of aprons on their stalls. I even remember parades of aprons to decide the prettiest. One of the first things I made in needlework class was an apron.  Perhaps they will make a come-back again as a fashion statement!  My mother often supported the stalls by buying an apron.


Margaret Nelson
November 2020

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

Margaret Nelson
​November 2020

​When you think about it, there are triggers all over the place. 

Walking with some friends last week, somehow the conversation turned to young couples and marriage.  Or perhaps it was lack of marriage, as many couple do not actually marry these days.  Here was a trigger.  It started me thinking about my nieces and nephews… as well as our own children.

I have 11 nieces and nephews, all adults these days.  And there are my own two children.  All the children from the generation are in long term relationships, most with children.  From memory, I think most of these young people lived with their future partner before marriage.  I can only think of two who were still living with their parents before marriage.

My nieces are all married, including one who thought she would never marry!  And our daughter is married – her husband wanted a family but thought they should be married before having a baby.

As for the boys, that seems to be a different story.   At this stage, only two are married, although all are in a relationship.  Our son is one of the two who are married, and 18 months before marrying he had raised the question with me as to how I felt about couples not marrying as he did not think it necessary.  He had even told his now wife that he did not belief in marriage.

​It was an interesting exercise thinking about these young people and raises the question as to why it is the boys who are not marrying.  Although one has been interested in marrying his partner, somehow it has not happened.
 
Joy Shirley
November 2020

I had used several triggers in previous contributions and had run out of ideas.  But the other day, as we were talking about our newly renovated bathroom, my husband and I realised that we have often undertaken renovations.  We had just said that we were not renovators when we remembered that in fact, we have often undertaken renovations.  We are just not people who do the work ourselves.

Our first home was in an outer suburb of Melbourne. We had just had our first baby and I was no longer working.  We added a garage and sealed the gravel driveway with bitumen to help keep the weeds down.  Not a major change and nothing inside the house.

We moved to Adelaide when our second child was around 15 months.  We extended the house, but I cannot remember the driving force for this.  The extension “gave birth” to a second room.  The proposed family room ended up with a second room as a study/spare room.  This was a more major renovation.

The home we bought on returning to Melbourne was a fifty’s house in Box Hill.  The kitchen was certainly dated, with little (NO!) bench space.  I used a table in the kitchen as a bench.  But eventually it had to change.  This was the first kitchen we renovated.

Then came a move back to Adelaide.  This was a lovely home with no changes required.  Still we managed to make a small change.  It had a pitched roof, with the ceiling space high enough to stand.  So we put a floor into the ceiling cavity and added pull down steps for access to form a workshop area.

In 1987 we moved to Canberra.  A year later, after selling our Adelaide home, we looked for a larger home to meet the needs of our teenagers.  Not finding anything suitable, another renovation was required.  The family room we added includes a major change to the kitchen.  So another major kitchen renovation.  Of course, it was less than 18 months later that both our children decided to leave home.  We ended up living in this house longer than any other home and ended up making another renovation.

There was a further move within Canberra.  This was a brand-new house, so really nothing to do.  We did manage a minor change – a new pergola over a large courtyard after adding some coloured patterning to the concrete.

So this brings us to Benalla.  Over the last two years we have renovated the kitchen and main bathroom.  And we have had the house painted and new carpet.  With a planned en-suite bathroom renovation for next year, we believe we will not need to do anything in the house for the next twenty years.  It will be interesting to see if this is the case.

So for a family that are not really “into renovations”, we seem to have made quite a few.

Joy Shirley
​November 2020