John Holschier
​October 2024

Mrs. A. and I did not like each other. She was a colleague and friend of my mother. I considered her as yet another of life’s insufferable bossy boots: a woman convinced of her own righteousness, and one of the few people that could bully my mother into submission.

Mrs. A. thought me a spoilt brat.

There was truth in both descriptions.

When the slaughter of the snails happened, we were living in a terrace house in North Carlton. I was fourteen.  As with most terrace houses there was a tiny front patch and a long, narrow strip at the back. Our next-door neighbours were gardeners, and their back yard was a cornucopia of fruit and vegetables, not to mention chooks for eggs, chooks that were probably eventually destined for the kitchen. Our back yard was inhabited by a few very tough shrubs planted by previous tenants, with a long washing line running its length. It was ideal for my mother, who had neither the time nor the inclination to garden.
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It was also a haven for snails. That is, until Mrs. A. spotted them and demanded their annihilation. With the certainty of a cold war warrior directing her troops, Mrs. A. ordered me to collect the snails. Once collected she lit the copper and emptied the bucket’s contents into the fire.

Not only was I horrified, but felt an inordinate guilt that I was complicit in this brutality. I abused my mother for allowing it to happen. She agreed.

This happened at about the same time as I had read an ode to snails in a book by Gerald Durrell. He could not understand how gardeners could obliterate this glorious example of evolution to protect plants lacking personality.

I doubt that gardeners would agree.

I did.

Haunted by the snail massacre, I announced to my mother that I would no longer eat meat. The issue that no animal willingly chose death had bothered me for a while. My mother called me a nuisance, but respected my decision and could understand why I had made it.

I confess that it took over ten years before I actually stopped eating meat altogether. Until then it was an on/off affair, something along the lines of “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet”.

The trigger was Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation first published in 1976. Until Singer’s book I used to apologise when invited to dinner: “I know I’m being a nuisance, sorry” . That stopped after reading Singer’s book. I didn’t lecture, but neither did I offer a grovelly apology.

The way we farm animals as though they were insentient machines was not something I could support.

It’s been an interesting journey. The snails were the catalyst, a turning point; Animal Liberation sealed it. It has probably been the most influential book I have read, and possibly one of the most influential books written. When I first became vegetarian, eating out was no fun as there were no vegetarian options. The restaurant would normally direct me to the fish dishes. When we ate out, my partner would joke: “What are you having? Salad and chips?”

Chinese and Lebanese became favourite options.

What a change in fifty years. We’ve had the explosion of ethnic restaurants and of groups with dietary restrictions; almost all food venues now include not just a vegetarian option but a vegan one as more and more people reject meat. Even Benalla’s Coles now offers a dedicated vegan fridge, with “vegan” proudly stamped on the packaging of processed food. This shift has happened for a variety of reasons: health, religious, animal welfare and more.  

So, here’s to snails, gastropods with an amazing physical structure and a private life to match.  As Van Gogh said “If you truly love nature, you will find beauty everywhere”


Delfina Manor
October 2024

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* Written for the topic 'As Time Goes By' memoir writing opic 'Turning Point' in October 2024.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_snail (worth a read, you’ll never look at snails in the same light!)
 
Disclaimer: I wrote this before I heard about the film “Memoirs of a snail”. It’s the cosmic brain at work again… ☹ ...

I was always a dreamer, never really deciding on any particular career, always seeking change and variety. My Mother was old school and so wasn’t particularly perturbed by my lack of direction. In her mind I would end up as someone’s wife with my primary role being to care for family. I had so many other ideas but couldn’t settle on any one in particular.

Then came the trip that provided the turning point and lead to a totally different direction. I did some travelling finding myself back in the UK, reuniting with the family. My cousin lived in London and enthusiastically took me out and about. I told of my passion for crime novels and reading about true crime and he joked about me joining the Met. I laughed saying I’m not good enough, didn’t excel in school. Long story short, there was a recruiting campaign on, encouraging people from all walks of life to apply. We had a wager, I said not a hope, they won’t take me, he said, you’ll get in no probs. I had secured a holiday job in a department store to fund my travels, so I wasn’t too fussed if I got in or not.

The application was duly completed and sent. I forgot about it and continued sightseeing. Then I got that letter, an invite to Scotland Yard, yikes what had I done. My Aunt accompanied me and off we went, by train, to my appointment. After passing the security checks going in, I was ushered to a quiet room with other applicants while my aunt was taken elsewhere. One by one we were taken into the next room; each person went in but never came out. Where did they go. I found myself getting rather apprehensive.

My turn came and I was taken through the door to a rather scary room, dull and formal looking. Three people sat behind a desk, all in uniform and looking rather stern. I sat before them and answered multiple questions being thrown at me simultaneously. It reminded me a little of some of the courtroom dramas or interrogation rooms I had seen in movies. After the grilling I was taken to yet another room, this time, non-uniform people. I wasn’t sure if they were fellow applicants or not, but we had tea and discussed our lives, experiences etc. Very casual, like strangers who meet in tour groups. Then I was taken to the canteen where a complimentary lunch was provided. We, the applicants, then chatted about our experience.

An hour later we were called, one by one, to the big boss, who told us our fate. I was in!!!!! Yikes, how did I manage that?  I paid my wager, dinner out for my cousin. A month later I received a package with my join up documentation. I was to be housed in a section house in London right next door to the training college in Hendon. There my newfound life would begin. I served 3 years in the British Police before returning home with more confidence in myself and more direction in my life. I joined the RAAF Police and Security division where I had a great career. 

Heather Hartland
​October 2024

​​A turning point in my life was coming to live in Benalla.  Here is what made that happen.
 
Our friends Marg and Don Hauser were glider pilots who regularly came to Benalla to fly.
On occasion they asked me to join them for the weekend, awakening my interest in
the sport of gliding.
 
Working a full-time job and with three still dependent children, the time and money involved to make flying a reality led to it being put on the back burner.
 
One Saturday afternoon some years later, when the children were older, I was standing doing dishes at the kitchen sink. As I looked up, I saw a small plane fly overhead. On that day, our children were off with friends, one on a sleep over and the other two involved in a weekend with scouts and cubs. Karl was at lawn bowls. The thought suddenly hit me, “Why am keeping the home fires burning, when there is just me in it?  
 
When Christmas time came around, Karl asked me what I would like for Christmas. In answer, I formulated a list, on top of which was an emerald and diamond dress ring, and on the bottom, a new potato peeler.  Somewhere near the middle, I slotted in a week in  Benalla to learn how to fly. I got the potato peeler and not the ring. However, I did find myself in Benalla learning how to fly.
 
Gliding is a sport where males and females are able to compete on an even footing. Muscle power is of no consequence. Karl was from the country town of Tongala in the Goulburn Valley.  We would often visit Tongala, however I found the small town claustrophobic.  I made it clear that I could never move to live in the country.
 
Eventually the children left home. Karl had semi-retired from teaching and I was still full time employed.
 
One Friday afternoon I came home and Karl said, ”How would you feel if we sold this house and built one in Benalla?” 
 
I thought for a minute. I had come to have a feeling for Benalla from my exposure to the gliding club.  Our eldest son Stuart, his wife and their two children were living in Yackandah, so we would be able to see them more often. It also meant I could have more access to my glider and flying.  All positives.  I also realised that the weather is better In Benalla, with more sunshine than Melbourne. 
 
To Karl’s surprise I agreed.  With that, he was on the phone to an estate agent who arrived a very short time later to talk about putting our home on the market.  The following day we drove to Benalla and looked around for a block of land. On Monday, when I came home from work, I found our house had been sold that day, so the die was cast for us to become Benalla residents.
 
It was the best move we ever made. We made friends and slotted into the local scene effortlessly.
 
The gliding club at Benalla is known throughout the gliding world as a premier soaring club. The conditions attract overseas pilots who want to fly in the northern winter and attain long flights in the excellent thermal conditions that this part of Australia provides.  Over the years we made many, many friends from England, Scotland, Finland, Canada, Wales and New Zealand. I have flown in England, Scotland, New Zealand and Slovenia and Hawaii. We have been able to offer accommodation to some of these pilots, especially those that bring their spouse. They have become lifelong friends.  We have been fortunate enough to have several overseas holidays staying with these wonderful people. Often, we were handed from household to household, moving from the south of England on up to the Lakes District, then Glasgow.  Staying with locals was a wonderful way to see more of England in particular.
 
I am eternally grateful to have moved to this friendly town. A turning point in our lives that worked out well for my family.
 
 
Claire Rudolph
June 2020

We grew up in a household without electricity or hot and cold running water. Cold water was tapped to the sink in the kitchen from one of the three water tanks at the back of the house.  Our hot water was heated in a container that sat on top of the stove or from a copper in the wash house. Not very convenient, especially in winter.

Our house was out of town so there were no street lights.  It was dark outside, particularly on winter nights.  We depended on wood for cooking and heating.  Lighting inside was provided by kerosene lamps, unless father lit the shellite lamp, which was like a Coleman lamp.  A lantern or battery torch was used outside or if we needed to go from room to room.

Doing one’s homework by the light of a single kerosene lamp was a far cry from studying under an LED.  Amazing how our eyes adjust!  

When I ventured into the ‘outside’ world, it took me a long time to remember to ‘flick the switch’ at dusk as we used to only light the lamp when we really needed it. I can still hear my flat mate’s remark ‘We DO have electricity here, you know’ when I would be pottering around in the kitchen in the half-dark.  Even today I can not understand why lights need to be on during the daylight hours.

Apart from the lighting, the most frustrating thing to the females in the family was the ironing. We didn’t use the old flat irons (that were later often used as doorstops), we had the more up to date ‘Mrs Pots’ irons, with the removable handle.  They were shaped a bit like boats with an arched clip-on handle. We had about three that were heated on top of the stove and when they were hot enough ( measured by spitting on - wouldn’t be appropriate in this COVID19 climate) we would clip on the handle and proceed to the table, carrying it upside down as we couldn’t trust the clip to hold the fairly weighty iron.

Because the iron didn’t retain the heat for very long we had several trips back and forth to the stove exchanging a cold iron for a hot one so the whole process took a while but we did get a bit of ‘gym’ work in.  We loathed pressing our navy school tunics with the three box pleats in the front and back.  To add to our frustration the ironing was carried out on a flat kitchen table, so you can see how hard it was getting sharp pleats in both the back and front. Oh, how we loved it when they needed to be dry cleaned and came back with beautifully pressed pleats.

When our poor mum did the ironing she dampened things down, first by splashing water with her hand from a basin and rolling the clothes to keep them damp whilst the irons heated, making it easier to iron out creases.
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Sometime after my sister and I left home our parents finally had the power connected. This was a big turning point for them.  But the biggest turning point for our mum was when my sister and I presented her with ......an ELECTRIC IRON.


Betty Milligan
May 2020

There are many turning points in all our lives.  Some are more extreme than others.  For me there are the usual changes that life brings.  Leaving school and heading to University; leaving university and starting work; marriage, first home, first baby.  All reflective of life for many.  Nothing outstanding or different.  But certainly representing changes in direction.

Then there was the first interstate move – Melbourne to Canberra.  Did it change my life?  Was it a turning point?  There was a second baby.  And I have written previously about the lessons I learnt from spending a lonely 11 months in Canberra.

There were other interstate moves: Canberra to Melbourne; Melbourne to Adelaide; Adelaide to Melbourne; Melbourne back to Adelaide; Adelaide to Canberra; Canberra to Benalla.  Again I have written a few times about retirement and our move to Benalla.
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Perhaps a significant turning point was both children leaving home within six months.  Our daughter went to Perth to study at the Western Australian academy of Performing Arts.  Our son headed to the Australian Maritime College in Launceston.  So there were no visits for a meal or to get Mum to help with the washing, stories others whose children had moved out told.  I had always thought that when I no longer had a need to care for our young people, I would be able to concentrate on career.  But it was a bigger mental and emotional shift that I had expected and it did take some time to make the change.  Perhaps a contributing factor was that they were quite young – our daughter was only 16 and our son 18 when they headed off to train for their future careers.  It was certainly a turning point in our lives as we learnt to be just the two of us again.

But recently, there has been a new “turning point”.

I have been learning about short row knitting.  This involves turning the knitting before reaching the end of the row – a turning point.  Then doing this in subsequent rows making each row shorter that the previous row.  Eventually you need to knit across the full row, past all the “turning points”.  Many years ago I had taught myself how to do this, but the on-line class I have been working through has shown so much more about how to make these turns, and how to hide them when finishing the shaping by knitting across the whole row.  The only method I knew was called “wrap and turn”.  Now I now about “yarn over”, “Japanese” and “German” methods for short row knitting.  I also know how to use this technique in shaping shoulders so that they are more even and easy to join.  And there are further lessons still to cover with more ways to use “short row knitting”.

So I have come to a turning point in my knitting – learning about different “turning points” in knitting.
 

Joy Shirley
​May 2020

​In late 1959 or early 1960 I had occasion to visit a neurologist because I was suffering ‘nervous debility’.  I was working extremely long hours for Victorian Producers Co-op at Wodonga.  We were having markets every Monday (Pig & Calf Markets), Tuesday (Cattle Market), Wednesday (Sheep Market Albury).  Market days were generally long, but the nights were the concern.  Bookwork involved working after tea until approximately 11.30 pm every Monday till Thursday.  This was constant.  My days began at 7-7.30 am, knock off for a beer at 5.30 pm; have tea at the pub where I was boarding; return to work at 7.30 pm and consistently work until 11.30 pm Monday to Thursday, Friday was my night off.  I would go with Tom & Mick Flanagan to an Albury pub every Friday night. 
 
I experienced a persistent rash on my arms, was waking up intermittently at night as if in fright and not really sleeping. Dr. Grant of Wodonga made an appointment for me with a specialist in Baylis Street, Wagga Wagga.  I do not recall his name.  Tom and Mick, my two mates, took the day off work and drove me to Wagga.  The Specialist put me through a thorough gruelling and told me I was over-working.  His verdict – “nervous debility”.  His advice – “study accountancy and work for yourself”.
 
My employer was considerate and realised the seriousness of my condition.  I was transferred to Head Office in Melbourne and took on the role of assistant internal auditor.  This involved routine daily work, 8.45 am till 5.15 pm and regular in-hour visits to the company’s 14 country branches.  I registered with the Australian Society of Accountants to do a correspondence course but admit that I was an ordinary student.  I was easily distracted.  I boarded with my brother John’s family in Prahran and really enjoyed life for the next two years.
 
Out of the blue management offered me a transfer to the Benalla Branch of the VPC.  It was experiencing some difficulties and the manager, Mr Kevin Donnelly, with whom I had previously worked, asked that I be transferred to take charge of the office administration.
 
I must admit that in my 15 years with the company I had never found any real satisfaction with my job.  I could never see any future.  I continued in Benalla until 1966 and changed jobs.  On being married, I again changed jobs and worked for Jim Smith in his accounting practice.
 
Here was the dormant opportunity.  Study Accountancy and work for yourself.  In 1968 I renewed my interest in studying accountancy in earnest.   The Australian Society of Accountants was phasing out its examination.  To comply with its requirements, I would need to study 100 hours per subject to ensure a pass.  This necessitated 20 hours per week which I strictly adhered to.
 
November 1972 came around.  I had one subject to pass to qualify as an accountant.  By chance it was the termination of the Society’s exams.
 
In all my study years I had not known one student who had passed Auditing on first try.  The pressure was on!
 
The date for the examination came around!  I sat for Auditing for the first time!  60% pass mark!  58% was not good enough!  I failed! The Society was not conducting any more examinations.  I was in Limbo!
 
Then fate smiled.  The Society compromised with the Bendigo Institute of Technology, now La Trobe University, and it was agreed that I could do a 12-month course with the Institute.  This involved travelling three times per week from Benalla to Bendigo for the year, and then doing their final examination.  A strenuous year.  Fortunately, the examination was a breeze after my tutored year.  I passed with 87%.
 
“Study accountancy!”  Accomplished.
 
“Work for yourself!”  Still to come!
 
Then came the toughest year of all.  Qualify as a Chartered Accountant to become eligible for partnership.  With hard work this was achieved.  I borrowed money to enable the purchase of a 1/3rd interest in James H. Smith & Co., thence Smith O’Shannessy & Co.  I was working for myself.
 
Subsequently I was awarded a Fellowship of the Chartered Institute and increased my interest in the partnership to 50%.
 
Thanks to Neurologist Specialist (name unknown), Baylis Street, Wagga Wagga.   I had followed your advice!
 
“STUDY ACCOUNTANCY, AND WORK FOR YOURSELF”
 
 
Ray O’Shannessy, FCA., CPA
19 April 2020