Blog Archives

'Then I heard someone whistle...'

29/11/2022

When looking at the heading for today’s “As time goes by….”, I was a bit unsure that I had any ‘Triggers’ in my life - then I heard someone whistle.

It reminded me of my Dad, and yes, I do think about him when I hear a whistle.    Dad was a quiet fellow, but he used to whistle when he arrived home from work when wheeling his bicycle down beside the house; he whistled when he was working in the shed and also when he was nervous – that was a different kind of whistle, usually a made up tune – or it may have been a tune I did not know.

He used to whistle “Home sweet home” when he arrived home, and “Whistle while you work” when pottering around the house and in the shed.   I did not know how much I missed him and his whistling, till I travelled to England in 2016, was thrilled to hear my second brother, Les and his son Adam, also whistling like Dad used to.

The other thing that triggers my memory is the smell of cigar smoke.   I think of my mother’s father, Grandpa McIntosh when I smell the cigar smoke.    Grandpa and my mother were not the best of friends, and he never played a large part in my life, but I remember sitting with him on the porch whilst he smoked his cigar.    If I was in trouble or upset he used to take me out on the porch of the terraced home that he lived in, light up a cigar and I would sit on his knee and tell him my troubles and how I felt ‘hard done by’ even if I was the cause of the upset.   I remember him quietly talking to me, with the smell of cigar smoke in the background.    Then we would go to the park where he would light up another cigar watching, whilst I played on the equipment, then he would buy me an ice cream on the way home.    I always felt calm and happy by the time we got home.

I started to notice when I was growing up and things were difficult at times, I would smell cigar smoke and feel some sense of warmth and comfort.    Sometimes there was nobody else around or smoking a cigar if there were a group of people – there was just the smell of cigar smoke.

I have had other ‘Triggers’ in my life over the years, but these I remember fondly, with a sense of calm when the above ‘Triggers’ occur.

Heather Wallace,
November 2022

"A certain road in Ferntree Gully triggers feelings of regret..."

29/11/2022

Certain things trigger memories. Memories can be both good and bad.

Like all human beings I have memories lying dormant inside a memory bank that resides in my head. Mostly they lie unopened but they spring into life when triggered. It's like they are always on a constant loop inside my mind, just waiting.

There can be something on TV. Sometimes it is a song. Sometimes someone says something. Whatever – a trigger always seems to be sprung easily and memory comes flooding out.

I would explain that my life is littered with regrets. Most that I would like to forget. Some are bitter sweet but are worth remembering.

There is a certain Road in Ferntree Gully that triggers feelings of regret. I cannot help feeling bad. I am reminded of how I treated our eldest son when I was teaching him to drive.

Tom had asked me to help him learn to drive. I had taken him to a large car park where we could practice parking and maneuvering. This worked out satisfactorily. He then asked me to let him drive home and as he seemed to have the hang of it I said yes. We drove up backstreets to keep away from traffic and off the main roads. Finally we came to the turnoff that led to the road that took us to our house. This particular road was narrow. Halfway along there were small traffic bollards in place to slow the pace of cars. Tom hit one with the right hand front Tyre as we went through.

I winced and Tom could see I was upset. I had made a groaning noise. I actually groaned out loud.

Tom apologised. He smiled regretfully as he said it. Instantly I knew I had done the wrong thing and I regretted my actions. I had criticized my son for a minor misdemeanor. There had been no damage done yet I had acted as if my property had been damaged. I was giving a higher priority to my possessions than to the feelings of my son. I had made him feel bad. I was showing that I had more concern for my possessions than him.

The irony was I normally raged against certain relatives who also had these failings. I had grown up surrounded by people who had felt that property and possessions were the most important thing in the world. I did not want to pass this culture on to my children. Yet here I was exhibiting it. This incident went into my memory bank to wait until triggered and would always come out to haunt me and remind me of my failings.

My next two children paid for their own driving lessons. Maybe Tom had warned them. To to my knowledge Tom has never attracted the attention of the Traffic Police. As an adult he certainly gives more importance to his children than to his possessions.

The words My Toolbox or the mention of the word toolbox are triggers in a similar way.

Whenever I see a toolbox or hear the word I am reminded of our second son.

When our second son was nearly two years old and not yet talking the television suddenly went off. This was a crisis. I went to the back of the TV and started to tease out the aerial wire. Before I had finished James had arrived back and was offering me his own tool box. He had received a toy tool box as a Christmas present and although he could not talk he knew what I had said. He knew his toy was indeed a tool box and he was offering it to me. He was showing what a wonderful generous heart he had. He was genuinely offering his help. And he was doing this silently.

He has not changed in 30 years of life. He is generous and helpful to a fault to whoever he knows. He still normally offers his generosity in silence.

The sight of The Simpsons on TV are a trigger that remind me of our third son. Our children grew up watching The Simpsons. We first watched them when they were a fill in on The Tracey Ulman Show.

When our children were babies it was I who decided that they should have dummies. My wife was a no nonsense type of women who initially saw dummies as a crutch that children did not need. I knew that suckling was important and that dummies did have some effect. None of our children became addicted to dummies and all voluntarily gave them up when they were old enough to reason the situation. James said he would give up the dummy cold turkey on Christmas Eve and he did. Alexander said he would experiment but would promise nothing.

Alexander did experiment and we thought his dummy was a thing of the past. But one night watching The Simpsons the plot focused on Maggie. Now Maggie does not do much except suck on her dummy. After watching Maggie suck on her dummy Alexander left the lounge room and went to his room He re appeared sucking on his dummy. He even sounded just like Maggie. He had been reminded of the pleasure of sucking on his dummy and thought he would experience it again. He indulged to the full in sucking. We could even hear him. The TV had reminded him of the pleasure of sucking a dummy.

Alexander still has the same attitude. He can reason his own problems and likes to think through issues in his own life.

The Simpsons have been another trigger. When the children were teenagers I felt that it was important that they were acquainted with classical Indian Music. I prepared a tape of Ravi Shankar to play in the car. I played it expecting the normal complaints of - why do we have to listen to this - why cant we play a tape of ours?

Instead they listened for several seconds in silence. They then broke into excited conversation.

They all recognised the music. They even knew the name Ravi Shankar. They then proceeded to remind each other of the plot of The Simpsons episode where the Concert for Bangla Desh is parodied.

Whenever The Simpsons appear on TV in the presence of my children they cannot help but remind me that they knew about Ravi Shankar before I could take it upon myself to educate them. Their memories are triggered and they cannot help but remind me of how they had it over me for once. This reminisce is accompanied by a lot of good natured schadenfreude chortling.

Neville Gibb
(Originally written for 'As Time Goes By' in November 2019)

'Paulie Stewart'

28/11/2022

Finding it difficult to sleep, I open up ‘In Conversation’ with Richard Fidler on my Podcast app. Scrolling through the program list, I notice a recent interview with Paulie Stewart. I know a little about Paulie and follow him on Twitter. I’m interested in knowing more, in knowing his side of the story, a story which had ramifications on people from my past.

Backtrack to October 18, 1975 – I’m teaching at Elwood High School and living in a share house in Malvern. My house mate is Duncan Ness, an ABC rural reporter. His many journalist friends often drop by– all working for different papers or TV news stations, they live fairly intense lives and enjoy catching up with one another. In late October, 1975, during the tumultuous news period preceding ‘The Dismissal’, they are deeply affected by news of the murders of five journalists and camera men in East Timor on October 16th. Duncan is particularly affected by the death of friend and former coworker, Greg Shackleton. It is never clear cut, from the beginning, what had happened, there has always been a sense that there may have been a withholding of knowledge from the families, of political expedience. Almost five decades have passed during which I’ve followed the work of Shirley Shackleton, wife of Greg, in her struggles to ensure that the truth be told about her husband’s death.

Fast forward to Daylesford in the late 1980’s – There’s a new doctor at one of our local surgeries in Daylesford. His name, Greg Stewart. At times he’s the doctor I see at the clinic. He and his doctor wife are active in the community and I find myself socializing with them. I’m aware that Greg is a brother of Tony Stewart, the 21-years old camera man who died in East Timor with other members of the Balibo 5. We don’t talk about it. In the mid-nineties, working in the town as a social worker, I have professional contact with Greg. One of the few doctors in the region registered as a methadone prescriber, I value the way in which he works so thoughtfully and warmly with the clients with addictions I refer to him. In time, Greg’s sister Annie, a talented professional story teller and actor, moves into town to raise her young children. I know Annie in passing. Like Greg, she doesn’t talk about it.

It's late 2022 as I listen to the interview, completely engaged, resisting the inclination to go back to sleep. Paulie Stewart, Tony, Greg and Annie’s, ‘out there’ younger brother, a member of the wild ‘Painters and Dockers’ band, has just published his memoir ‘All the Rage’. Richard Fidler is expertly drawing him out, allowing Paulie’s humour, life experience, humanity and memories to flow freely.

What would our experience have been like if we were teenagers and an older sibling had allegedly been murdered by the army of a neighbouring nation in politically difficult circumstances, if we, and our families had our ‘personal grief and family crisis foisted upon the main stage as part of a story that has haunted the Australian media for decades’ (Annie Stewart*). Indeed, the Australian War Memorial Website currently states, ‘the details of precisely how or why the Balibo 5 died are still not publicly known’.

I’m so glad that, almost 50 years later, I listened to Paulie’s interview. It has filled in some gaps, helped me better understand the impact on his family - on Paulie as Tony’s 15-year old younger brother, on his parents as they tried to shepherd their children through a traumatic time despite their own grief, and on Greg and Annie.

Thank you, Paulie, for speaking about it.

Beverley Lee
November 28 2022

*Our Tony – by Annie Stewart https://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2009/08/29/2670632.htm

'Triggers'

28/11/2022

The other week, while rearranging the junk one collects and stores in the garage, I was interrupted and left a stack out of place. Driving the car back in left almost no room for the roller door to close, and me to walk safely behind it when the roller closed.

I pulled the lever and the roller started to close. To get back into the house, I had to step outside because the car was in the way. Obviously, one has to be on the right side of quick. Katie yelled out “duck.” This I successfully did, but it fired a memory of my maternal grandfather.

When we were very young tackers, my brothers, cousins and I would pile into Grandad’s Vanguard sedan. No seat belts or safety restraints then. When approaching the railway bridge at East Maitland he would yell out “duck.” How naïve and obedient to commands we all were! We would all duck as we went under the bridge, and this brought great rolls of mirth from Grandad. He would always stop and buy us all an icy-pole, a treat we appreciated and the main reason we got into his car.

Years later, I learned the Grandad was an S.P. Bookmaker and during this drive he would visit the few recalcitrant punters that needed a reminder to pay up. I still fondly recall those drives.

Well, I must live in a cave because this is the only trigger that has triggered a response, unless Roy Roger’s horse Trigger counts.

Graeme Morris
Sunday 27 November

STOP PRESS 1727 Hours Sunday 27 Nov 2022

Assiduously working on my family tree while listening to Hits of the 1960’s, the sounds of “I want to be Bobby’s Girl” fill the room, bringing back a memory of my boyhood barber, Mac. His surname was McMaster, but I only knew him as Mac. Short back and sides Mac, until the College Cut became fashionable, then long hair.

Back to Mac. The barbers’ shop was in Josephine St. Riverwood and the El Torro milk bar was next door, on the corner with Belmore Rd. The El Torro was the haunt for teenagers, (read Bodgies and Widgies) had a juke box and from Aug 1962 “I want to be Bobby’s Girl” was relentlessly played, rising to No 3 on the hit parade. Well, the equation

springs to mind, and without boring you with the details it had elements of frequency played, decibel level, brain absorbance v irritability, divided by intolerance of teenage culture and the ratio of Mac’s prejudice to pop music and his temper v fits of pique.

Well, one day, poor old Mac cracked it. He stormed into the milk bar and kicked the juke box causing some damage. The Police were called and he ended up in court. He was given a bond and, dad told me later in life, there was a whip around to defray the costs of repairs. It must have been a decent kick.

My recollections of this come from overhearing my parents talk about Mac’s demise. I do recall him going crook about the song when it played during a hair- cut, but being 11 at the time, pop music was not on my radar.

The only other thing I remember about Mac is he lived in Five Dock, had a son named Arthur and was a rusted-on Labor voter.

'Bobby's Girl' was a one hit wonder.

Graeme

'Triggers - November 2022'

27/11/2022

For me, walking into the FCJ Convent during the month of November for a U3A commitment, triggered memories of my childhood school days, when I was taught by the Sisters of Mercy. The sisters, or nuns as they were universally called, generally were very caring people who greatly influenced our lives. I must admit that they gave me a solid grounding for a fulfilling life. There was, however, the occasional nun who did not abide by the motto of being a Sister of Mercy, and one comes readily to mind.

Sister Brendan was a robust woman with a ‘farm girl’ background. She took a dislike to my older brother Basil, who was forthright and occasionally disruptive. She was always ready to “have a go” at him.

The perfect opportunity arose one cold, wet Ballarat day in the school shelter shed where the whole school, all 25 of us, were gathered and doing ‘horse’ exercises (remember the wooden horse and the springboard?)

I was only a slip of a kid and Basil, being two years older than me, was somewhat bigger. Due to my small build and my agility, I was quite versatile with ‘horse’ exercises. Let’s just say that Basil did not shine at these gymnastics.

Sister Brendan, with an ulterior motive, set us up to compete against each other.

As was expected, Basil stumbled and tripped, and made a ‘goose’ of himself. I was in good form, and to Sister Brendan’s glee, outshone and humiliated him.

Then it happened!!! As I was turning to make what would be my last jump, Sister Brendan moved a little closer to the horse. Too close, as it turned out. I proceeded with my vault, and with legs outstretched, leapt from the springboard, and my two feet struck her dead centre in the mouth.

Just imagine the hilarity of the boys!

As I take time to recall, I can still visualise the imprint of my two dirty sand shoes on her startled face.

Sister Brendan had intended to humiliate Basil and had succeeded. But in turn, she herself was humbled.

Poetic Justice! Serves her right!
‘

Melbourne Cup Day always triggers further memories for me. In 1962 I was living in Melbourne and three of my Wodonga friends came down for Cup Day.

We had a great day, though not financially rewarding.

My friends were staying at the Federal Hotel in the city. This hotel had a great rapport with country people.

After leaving Flemington Racecourse we adjourned to the hotel for our evening meal and the after-dinner entertainment. Two of my friends each won themselves ‘a heart’ and I loaned them my car to take the girls (both nurses) home to the nurses’ quarters.
Mick (the other friend) and I adjourned to their room to await their return.

When they did return, I set out for home, but didn’t make it. I collided with and electric light pole. (The SEC later sent me a bill for one hundred pounds!)

I suffered a depressed fracture of the skull, a punctured lung, a fractured sternum, 12 broken ribs and brain damage. I was in a pretty bad way. (I experienced later sensations which I called ‘brain slides’). I was placed on Dilantin medication “for the rest of your life”. However, after 25 years I was off it.

Having told that, I am now pleased to say that, after 60 years, I am hale and hearty.

Ray O’Shannessy
November 2022

'Triggered - a visit into my past'

27/11/2022

The trigger was contained in an email from Bev. She thought that I could be interested in books written about Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War.

The title of the article was: 'Ticking like a bomb. Two new books show what Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War left in its wake.'

The second book was written by an acquaintance of mine, who organized a number of tours of Vietnam after hostilities ceased. It is now on my Christmas wish list.

The first book are reflections, written by the daughter of a returned conscript, who died at the age of 52, and whom she would ‘never know fully’ as a result of his experiences in Vietnam. When Bronwyn, the writer, was four, her father returned from Vietnam. She notes that she didn’t think much of this stranger, and a stranger he largely remained.

One sentence was my trigger: - On searching through his belongings, Bronwyn, finds ‘an embroidered green silk coat that she, the youngest, and her two older sisters think is a kimono, though the father had sent it from Vietnam’.

I knew immediately what it was. An ‘au dai’….. the traditional Vietnamese dress that enchanted me when I visited Saigon in 1970, now named Ho Chi Min city.

The war was raging and I was part of an international peace mission at a time when there was some thought that the war could be resolved peacefully.

While there, I also purchased an ‘ao dai’ wanting to impress my girlfriend and future wife. Although I think I was also motivated by more basic urges. I am sure entertaining to the locals, was the sight of the Vietnamese tailor and I, seeking out a suitably statured young woman in the street, of similar height to my Elizabeth, to be our model.

Jump forward to mid 2021

My then partner and I were doing a tour of Victoria, long before I had even considered moving to Benalla . We were primarily in Victoria to search out her family history story lines in Ballarat.

During a lull in Covid restrictions, we decided to do the ‘tourist thing’. Great Ocean Road, Sorento, Mornington Peninsular and of course, the penguins on Phillip Island.

Driving onto Phillip Island, my eyes were captured by a large construction surrounded by a variety of military equipment including massive planes and tanks.

I noticed a large sign.

Immediately, I thought of my brother, in the early 70’s, a regular Aussie soldier in Vietnam. After service, he returned to Australia, never able to hold a full-time job again and afflicted by alcohol and gambling addictions after a failed marriage.

Annette, my partner, motivated by compassion, decided that she wanted to visit the museum.

My anger over the decision by the Australian government to passively and deceitfully follow the lead of the Americans into the war, resurfaced again. I was determined.

I would go for a walk instead.

Yet, I felt a nudge. Perhaps I could accompany her, energized by my anger and seek out an opportunity to debate and argue against our involvement.

On entering, I was appalled at the ‘adventure playground’ nature of the exhibits. The hall was packed with instruments of war. Khaki green and metal grey everywhere.

But there was something different.

On their Webpage, the Vietnam Vets state:

‘The museum seeks to remember, interpret and understand the experience of Australia’s longest war and the enduring impact of the war on society. A museum created and run by volunteers.’

Over an hour and a half I observed, read, and experienced what was presented. I felt the exhibition tried to find a balance. It incorporated some arguments against the war and even surprisingly took a neutral approach to historical opposition to the war. I was emotionally moved.

Still, I wanted to argue my position and sat down with a couple of Vietnam Vet volunteers and drank coffee.

Instead of talking I listened.

Yes the volunteers were proud of their service and keen to talk about the history of the museum.

But after 50 years there was still pain. No vain glory but a sense of solidarity with those who served and those who died.

I talked of my brother, his experiences, most never shared with me, and expressed my gratitude to the Vietnam Veterans’ Association, who enticed my brother out of the abyss.

The men talked about the history of their struggle with their own mental health and the failure of the RSL to embrace them.

I sat, with tears in my eyes, with a very present and healing sense of connection.

Graham Jensen
November 2022

'Escape to the Country'

27/11/2022

My life seems to have many triggers, or perhaps I have too many memories, in any case I seem to be constantly reminded of things I have seen or experienced in my life time.

Most recently, watching episodes of a TV show called “Escape to the Country”, two shows featured people moving to Wales in the UK. Wales is known as the land of song and rolling green hills. I still have memories of the beautiful sound of the choirs as they sang in Welsh and English. I recall sitting enthralled listening to my grandfather telling me stories from his homeland, the smell of his pipe and the smells associated with his tailor’s shop.

Featured in the show was our ancestral home, Merthyr Tydvil which has a mixed history. On the positive side - Howard Winstone MBE, who became a world champion featherweight boxer and a statue to him now sits in the village. Gustavius (Gus) Payne an acclaimed artist who painted from the heart. On the negative side of course, the 1831 uprising was sparked when bailiffs attempted to seize goods from the home of Lewsyn yr Heliwr (Lewis the Huntsman). Iron workers struck against redundancies, rising prices and bailiffs. They were dark times.

Not far from Merthyr Tydvil was another place mentioned in the show, Aberfan. It’s another small Welsh village with a tragic past. On Mynydd Merthyr, directly above Aberfan were several tips with millions of cubic meters of mining debris and waste from local coal mines. On 21st October 1966, after days of torrential rain, there was subsidence and the tip moved down the hill at a rapid rate, swallowing a farm, several houses and a school. The death toll was high.

Another TV show was about trains and the various locations those trains went to around the world. It took me back to Pont-Y-Cafnau which has the world’s oldest surviving iron railway bridge. It also showed steam railways in Wales and mentioned the little-known handmade boat called a Coracle. This triggered memories from childhood again in that I recall men carrying these weird little craft to the river.

It seems just watching a movie or TV show where Wales is featured triggers multiple memories of a happy childhood.

I seem to have drifted off topic again and wandered into a history lesson!!!!

Heather Hartland
November 2022

'The Trigger' - Carmyl Winkler

23/11/2022

“This is Sharon Wilson speaking. We’re about an hour away from Benalla. Would you be home if we called?”

Sharon Wilson! That won’t be her name now. Michael had been part of a Writers’ Festival in Mildura recently and Sharon had come along, so that was how she knew my phone number.

Sharon was 1 ½ years old when we left Merbein. She’s now 54. I know that because she was born two days before our son, Stephen.

Don had made the trip up from Horsham in December to check out the school and accommodation. The real estate firm had nothing and the trip up was effectively sandy desert and Mallee scrub. What were we thinking of when we put it at the top of our list?

The footie coach was putting the finishing touches to a house near the school and was willing to rent it. We moved in with 3 year-old Bronwyn, on January 17th 1966. Then we found the house next door had just come up for sale. We had no money. The price was £1800. We borrowed £800 from the bank and a long-term loan of £1000 from Don’s dad and moved in on 26th. February. Kevin obligingly found someone else to rent his house and we packed up everything we’d unpacked a month previously and passed it over the fence or along the back lane.

This house was a ‘miner’s cottage’. Two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen on the back, a bath with a wood heater and a toilet with a can, way down the back. Every afternoon after school, often in 104° heat, saw Don valiantly digging a large hole to house a septic tank and, unbelievably, in less than 3 weeks we had a new septic tank and the back porch covered in with a new toilet coming off it. How about that for tradesmen!

Six weeks after we moved in, our first son, Michael, was born. Incidentally, our second and third sons were also born in our four years at Merbein with Tim just three weeks old when we moved.

The school went up to year 11 with Year 12 students going into Mildura. The parents were basically ‘blockies’ or growers of citrus. Seconds oranges were sold at the packing sheds for $1/bucket. (Yes, decimal currency had come in in the midst of our house negotiations.)

Our best friends were the Wilsons. They were ‘blockies’ and we learned much about dried fruit growing from them. You picked the grapes into a ‘dip tin’, like a large rectangular colander. The sultana and currant grapes were tipped out onto the drying racks- four or five long layers of wire netting with a roof over the top. The raisins had to be dipped into a syrup before they went on the rack. After the required drying time – maybe two or three weeks – the racks had a mat spread out below the bottom layer and the rack was shaken by a machine. The dried fruit dropped through onto the mat and was ready to send off to be packaged.

Wilsons had three daughters and a son who were wonderful friends to our children. Then Dot and I found out we were both pregnant with babies due at the same time. Sharon was born on the 17th. March 1968 and Stephen on the 19th. They were baptised on the same day and shared their first birthday celebrations.

So many more memories – Don’s dad putting on an extra little room on the side of the house, almost daily swims in the river during the summer, going over the road to the principal’s house to watch the moon landing because we didn’t have a TV.

Don looked back on his years at Merbein as the happiest in his teaching career.

And yes, we did catch up briefly with the Wilsons a few times in the years just after we left if they were coming east for holidays but, basically, it was 52 years since I’d had the pleasure of again sharing lunch with Sharon neeʹ Wilson.

Carmyl Winkler

'Triggers'

The brief - "Keep a notebook close at hand this month in which to note any ‘triggers’ which led you to reminisce about a time in your life. You may have been talking to someone, watching television or a film, driving somewhere, reading a book. Choose one to three of these and write about the memories evoked – keeping the total words to 500 – 750 words."

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