coming up against

spivs and tricksters

masters of the soft-art-sell.

This morning, my Facebook feed reminded me that it ​was John Olsen's birthday today and that I should send ​him birthday greetings. So, happy birthday, John. Just a ​wee small detail: he's dead.

But maybe it's possible these days to send a birthday ​wish through the ether to the near and dearly departed. ​(I must pursue this line of thought later, as there might ​be a buck to be made...)

Getting back to John Olsen. I did know him as I taught ​his son Tim at The King's School. Though John never did ​front at parent-teacher nights. There was not much to ​complain about regarding Tim. He was a sweet lad who ​always gave his best.

Around this time, it became the fashion to hold Wine & ​Cheese Evenings where the parents would gather and ​look to buy a painting where the school would benefit ​from a percentage of the sale.

It was a profitable business, and many art galleries ​would load trucks full of their wares for the attention of ​the assembled parents and supporters, especially as a ​few glasses of bubbly would likely loosen the purse ​strings and dull the aesthetic response. The Schools in ​the Great Public Schools (GPS) organisation were ​masters at the soft-art-sell.

But, as in so many things, The King's School was a little ​slow on the uptake. Art never played the interest point ​of rugby or rowing. Eventually, though, the penny did ​drop, and, seeing John Olsen was a current parent, an ​Art Exhibition event was organised, and John Olsen was ​asked if he would be so kind as to open the show. He ​agreed.

The works were duly hung in the many rooms of the old ​colonial building, Gowan Brae, on the King's School ​property. The parents assembled in their finery, the wine ​did flow, and Canon Kurrle, the headmaster, addressed ​the gathered throng to introduce the guest of honour, ​John Olsen.

Now, Canon Kurrle never did strike me as a man well-​versed in the Visual Arts. Though, if I am not mistaken, ​he did boast of a Pro Hart, an Ant painting proudly ​displayed in his living room. But on this occasion, he ​enthusiastically rose to his task, telling his audience ​that John Olsen was, in a word, up there with ​Rembrandt.

On and on he went, and by the end of his oration of ​introduction, the audience might well have been under ​the impression that John had painted the Sistine ​Chapel. (Please excuse my poetic licence. It was pretty ​rich stuff.)

So when it came time for John to say a few words, it ​was taken as ex-cathedra. The beret and the artistic ​raiments all added to the scene. And maybe a glass or ​three of whatever was on offer.

He thanked the good Canon for his introduction and ​then posed a hypothetical: "My friends in the art world ​ask me why I send my son to a school like King's. Why ​not either home-schooled or the state system? Easy ​answer.....

I told my boy that in life, he would come up against ​spivs and tricksters, so it was best to learn what they ​looked like, the methods they used, and that the earlier ​the lesson was learnt, the better. Oh, and if you are ​wondering what is the best art to buy......"

Then he rattled off a list of numbers from the ​catalogue, all of which happened to be his works. Canon ​Kurrle had dug himself such a hole, and I think he ​might have been grateful for a place to hide on this ​occasion.

Ars longa vita brevis.

it was off the

Richter Scale

When I was teaching at The King's School, at the end of ​each year, a colleague of mine, Tom Bawden, and I had ​a little competition. It involved awarding ourselves ​points if and when a student who was leaving said ​thank you. We had worked out a rather intricate points ​system that went something like this.

If a lad who just happened to be passing on his way out ​the gate said, "Oh, thanks, Sir",.....then that gained you ​1 point. If a lad went out of his way to seek you out to ​thank you... then that was 5 points. If a gift ​accompanied the thanks....then that was 10 points.

It was even possible to get minus points. For example... ​if a lad gave you ‘the finger’ from a departing car... ​then that was minus 5—a lad passing in the corridor ​without saying anything... minus 1. You get the drift.

As I said, Tom and I played this game with each other ​and in a 10-year period, I was successful on several ​occasions and Tom on a couple. Many a year saw no ​winner—just a total silence and absence of any thanks.

The loser had to buy the winner a $5 Scratch Lottery ​ticket. You soon realise you were not in the game for ​the thanks. But I would like to think that Tom, a science ​teacher, and myself, an English teacher, often went the ​extra mile, and endeavoured to be the best teacher ​according to our abilities.

Now, to understand the immense cruelty that I am ​about to relate to you, you have to know that Tom had ​a beard of epic proportions. Ned Kelly style. And this ​particular year that I am telling you about, we were ​travelling neck and neck with regard to the points we ​had gained. 5 or 6 points made you a likely winner.

As I came into the Common Room one morning, there ​was a lad waiting at the door, and he asked to see if Mr ​Bawden was in the Common Room. This looked to be a ​potential five-pointer for Tom. And adding to my certain ​loss this year, the lad was carrying a wrapped parcel ​under his arm. Ominous... Bloody ominous.

I told Tom that there was a lad at the door to see him ​and made a brief acknowledgement that he was the ​winner this year. Tom bounded to the door, and yes, the ​lad handed over the gift with these words: "My Mother ​said I had to give you this, Sir."

Now, that was a sentiment that we had not thought of ​for our points system—a tricky one. A forced thank you. ​But the gift. The gift. That was mighty. Points. Points. ​Points.

Tom returned to the Common ​Room to open what he hoped was ​a bottle of whiskey. "Poor Tom”, ​as he was known, was not ​allowed to drink in his home, but ​he sure did like a tipple when he ​was out of sight of his wife.

The parcel was thus unwrapped to reveal.....the largest ​bottle of aftershave you have ever seen. MINUS 100. In ​fact, it was off the Richter Scale of minus points. Tom ​was gutted, and he graciously declared me the winner ​for the year and for all time. So I romped home with a ​+4.

State Library of

New South Wales

The case of:

the missing Molly Trolley

It's often said that, in general, Americans lack a sense ​of humour. For instance, Fawlty Towers does not go ​down at all well in the USA. But my dear American ​friend, Ed Q, has a delicious sense of fun and humour ​(he would spell that humor), as this little story will ​show.

Ed and Ruth, and their two boys ​spent a year teaching in Sydney on ​an exchange. During that time, ​they met many of my friends and ​became a part of the scene.

A friend of mine worked at the State Library of New ​South Wales, and she would often recount funny ​stories from the depths of the Library.

Let me digress before getting back to Ed.

In the lead-up to the Bicentenary Celebrations in 1988, ​it became the rage to research family histories. It was ​quite fashionable to find a convict ancestor, and dinner ​party conversations were peppered with the latest ​skeletons in the cupboard of one's ancestors.

Naturally, the archives of the State Library were a ​treasure trove of information, and the library staff were ​driven mad trying to answer questions pertaining to ​one's forebears.

Duplicates were made of much of the relevant materials ​for family history researchers, and readers were ​encouraged to use the material themselves. But some ​people wanted to have the Library staff to do the ​research. The job of paid public servants was often the ​tone taken.

One particularly rude ​gentleman demanded the ​relevant information about ​his ancestor be found. ​Convict or not? With several ​people milling around, the ​Library staffer returned, ​telling the man that his ​ancestor was a convict on ​the first fleet—a smug look ​across the man's face. Job ​done.

But the Librarian had one further question: “Do you ​want to know what the offence was, sir?” “Yes, please.” ​“Buggery with a pig.” came the staffer's reply.

Now, back to Ed Q. He had heard from Joy, a close ​friend who worked in the library, that there had been ​much fuss made by Miss Dorothy Ramsay, the lady who ​was the head of the Cataloguing Department, over a ​missing Molly Trolley (so-named after the lady who ​designed the book trolley). These trolleys were jealously ​guarded by each department where they were used.

So, a Trolley going missing was cause for alarm, and ​fingers were pointed at other departments in the ​Library. But to Miss Ramsay's chagrin, the Molly Trolley ​was never found. Each department clearly marked their ​Molly's. Miss Ramsay's life was focused on her work in ​cataloguing. Safe to say, she lacked a sense of humour.

Life skills, pretty minimal.

When Ed returned to the USA, he wrote to Miss Ramsay ​telling her that he had been a frequent user of the ​services of the State Library when he was living in ​Sydney and that he had been amazed at the services ​they provided.

“So,” he went on to say, “you can imagine my shock ​and horror when visiting Disneyland with my family to ​find a hot dog seller dispensing his wares from a Molly ​Trolley clearly marked Catalogue Dept NSW State ​Library.” He told Miss Ramsay that he would wait for ​further instructions to expedite the safe return of said ​Molly Trolley.

When Miss Ramsay received the letter, she called a staff ​meeting and asked if the police, or even ASIO, should be ​called upon to retrieve her Molly Trolley. Maybe it's even ​a case for the FBI? Nobody had the heart to tell her that ​her leg was being pulled.

Dear sweet Dorothy went to her grave never having the ​satisfaction of seeing her beloved Molly Trolley safely ​back in the Cataloguing Dept..

Charlie Maslin

It's an absolute pleasure to be able to introduce you to the sculpture of my dear ​friend, Charlie Maslin. Some might say that this is something that he does in his ​spare time, but everything he does in his daily life is a form of art. He has ​transformed his property into a showpiece landscape. The property is an actual work ​of land art, and the artist Lucy Culliton has painted the pools, creek and treescapes, ​holding sell-out exhibitions.

He'd be too modest to say it, but Charlie has taken up the brush and has painted ​many aspects of his property. However, it is his sculptures that really show the ​strength of his work. Using found objects, junk metal, railway pins....in fact, anything ​is up for consideration; he fashions kinetic sculptures that sit at strategic points in ​the landscape; the wind and the elements determine their movement. He has been at ​it for about 25 years, which is a part of his life that gives both him and us ​enormous pleasure.

Made of old rod offcuts, it has 4 lightning bolts ​in the gaps between the rods.

The

responsible ​male

Carer for the day...

When I began teaching at The King's School in 1974, one of the first families I got to know was the Milne's: John and ​Enid and their three children, Charles, Elizabeth and Peter. Charles and Peter had been students at King's. I would often ​go out to their place in Dural and give John a hand to maintain the lawns and the garden. They were like family to me. ​Enid was a fabulous cook, and it sure beat the meals provided at King's.

One day, Enid asked me if I would accompany her to a prison visit in order to meet Marco, a prisoner she had been ​visiting for many years and, as he was about to be granted day leave, seeing as he had been convicted of a severe ​crime, then he’d need to have a responsible male to be his Carer for the day. So Enid asked if I would be that person. ​And on that day, I met quite an extraordinary man who had turned his life around. Marco was of Italian/Argentine ​heritage and had come to Australia and had overstayed his visa, so he was in danger of being refused residency in ​Australia after serving his sentence.

While in prison, Marco had educated himself by reading ​the History of Australia by Manning Clark, and he had ​started a written correspondence with the great ​historian. On that first of the day releases, Enid, Marco ​and I sat on the beach at Manly and had fish and chips ​and a wonderful conversation. Marco loved to swim in ​the ocean and we had quite a job to get him to leave the ​water as we had to be back at Parramatta Prison by 4 ​pm. Many years later, I was the best man at Marco's ​wedding. Our friendship has lasted over 30 years.

I was keen to participate in the prison visiting scheme on my own behalf, so I joined a small group with a special status ​within the prison system. As well as being escorts for day release, we could visit long-term prisoners who had become ​isolated as a result of their incarceration. I met many colourful characters, some of whom I was often glad that there ​was a glass screen between us.

Back to Marco. The government decided that he was to be deported, and Enid and I decided that we would fight that ​order in the Court of Appeal. Redfern Legal Aid supported our cause, and we were so fortunate to have the services of ​Virginia Bell to fight on Marco's behalf. Virginia later went on to be appointed as a judge on the High Court of Australia. ​Marco's case rested on his character witnesses, and guided by Virginia, we were successful, and Marco was granted ​permanent residency. The legal system is at its best on this occasion.

As well as doing the prison visiting, our small band ​would fund raise in order to support the families of men ​in prison, especially at Christmas when we would deliver ​hampers and toys. As a recent group member, I was ​confident that I could drum up support for our cause by ​speaking to Rotary and Lions clubs in the Parramatta ​area. Longer-time members cautioned me about my ​enthusiasm, but I was not to be deterred.

At a Rotary meeting in Carlingford, I was to be the guest speaker. I thought I would go all out to win their monetary ​support with the appeal to the support for the kiddies. I spoke for about twenty minutes and felt I had softened hearts ​and opened wallets.

The Club president spoke after my talk, thanking me for my talk, and, on behalf of the gathered members, informed me ​that they would not be supporting my cause, saying that "we believe the convicts (his word) should be in jail to be ​punished, and that the causes that we support should be able to have plaques erected in public recognition of our good ​works." I was tempted to offer up a convict who could have a tattoo branded on his chest. I realised my cause was a lost ​one in this group.

Not all day-release escorting went without incident. I quickly learnt that those serving time for drug-related crimes were ​liable to try to manipulate you and try to get you to break some of the rules set in place. We were not allowed to go to ​pubs or gambling establishments, and drug taking was, of course, not permitted.

On several occasions, I had to weather a steam of abuse, ​generally of the kind, "You are just like the screws," or ​"How about I see you in a couple of hours..." or "It's ​really hot, and I'm thirsty and would love just one beer." ​My explanation that one transgression could ruin it for ​all others in the system did not cut much ice. Give me ​the good old fashioned crim, the man with a long ​sentence, for they knew the value of the freedom that ​was soon to come their way.

I did prison visiting for many years, but one incident really scared me, and as I was moving away from Parramatta, I ​decided to call it a day. I had an initial meeting with a chap in Parramatta jail. He told me his life story. He was about ​30 years old, had a university degree and was charged with being involved in gang-related crime.

He told me that he felt his life was in danger within the prison, and as a result, he spent all of his time in the gym, ​building his fitness and strength so that he could defend himself. I didn't quite know how to take this. But I said I ​would visit again in two weeks to renew our getting to know each other. About five days later, there was a news item ​on ABC News saying that an inmate in Parramatta jail had been killed overnight. That was the chap that I had seen. I ​was spooked by that and decided to call it a day.

I grew up in a house that was without a book. Well, the ​telephone book, if you can count that. We had a few ​books in the Golden Book series as young children. One ​in particular stands out: The Taxi That Hurried. This has ​been read over and over and over again. More recited ​than read.

There could have been other books, ​but I have no memory of them. My ​reading was focused on the Biggles ​and Just William books by late ​primary and early secondary ​school.

A lad in my class, Kevin Seggie, ​had all the Biggles and Just ​William books. Talk about envy. ​But he was a generous lender and ​bit by bit; I read my way through ​all these titles. I thought I did, for I ​later learned there were well over ​100 Biggles titles and 38 Just ​William books.

And then one day in my reading life, ​magic happened. My English teacher, ​Brother Frederick, gave me a copy of ​David Copperfield by Charles ​Dickens, and I was away.

Hooked on books for life. It was as if I had moved, in ​nourishment terms, from cornflakes to a baked dinner, ​from a famine to a feast. And I would like to think I ​have never lost my thirst for reading.

A Walk in the Park

Exploring Tranquility:

A Daily Retreat to the Park

In the heart of our bustling city of Hobart lies a hidden ​gem - the park where Pottery Road and Augusta ​intersect. This green haven has become more than just ​a place for leisure; it's our sanctuary, a daily retreat ​that provides solace and a break from the demands of ​our busy lives.

The park, adorned with a beautifully maintained football ​oval reminiscent of a pristine bowling green, is a source ​of joy for my friend Peter, our two snow-white ​companions, Billy and Phryne, and me. Despite a nearby ​dog park, we've discovered an affinity for the quiet ​charm of the oval, drawn to its tranquillity and the ​soothing sounds of nature that surround it.

As we meander through the park's winding paths, the ​ambient sounds of rustling leaves, distant bird chirps, ​and the gentle hum of life in the park create a calming ​backdrop. Our walks become a serene adventure, ​enhanced by the playful energy of Billy and Phryne. It's ​heartwarming to witness their joy in the open space, ​surrounded by the quietude that envelops the park.

Amidst the park's trees, where nature's symphony takes ​centre stage, the football oval becomes our meeting ​point. Here, Peter often uncovers interesting items, lost ​or discarded, which find new life in his captivating ​collages. The creative energy flows in this tranquil ​setting, inspiring both of us in unique ways.

Our daily tradition, a post-lunch drive to the park, is a ​cherished routine that offers a complete break from the ​digital world and the demands of our blog.

The park becomes a refuge, allowing me to disconnect ​and recharge amidst nature's embrace. Simultaneously, ​it provides Peter with a valuable timeout from his ​studio, offering moments of relaxation and inspiration ​crucial for his artistic endeavours.

Our visits to the Park have transcended the ordinary; ​they've become a shared refuge, creating lasting ​memories and adding an extra layer of joy to our daily ​lives. The preference for the quiet charm of the oval, ​combined with the inherent tranquillity of the park, ​makes our time in this natural oasis exceptional and ​enjoyable.

In the midst of our bustling lives, the Park stands as a ​testament to the power of nature to provide sanctuary ​and inspire creativity. It's a reminder that, sometimes, ​the most meaningful escapes are found in the simple ​beauty of a well-trodden path, a vibrant green oval, and ​the company of loyal friends, both human and canine.

Robin

Lord Jim at Home

A Book by Dinah Brooke

These past few days, in my blogs, I have been ​recounting the cruelty and the subjugation that was rife ​in the so-called education of the young. And now, today, ​in the wonderful book Lord Jim at Home by Dinah ​Brooke, I came across this passage that describes the ​power dynamic of the child's nursery and the roles ​played by the parents and the nanny. It captures to a ​tee just what I was trying to say.

“The nurse is a fighter. She has strength, courage, and ​skill. She is not to be beaten. She revels in the sound ​and smell of battle. The harsh crack of her hands on ​desperately flailing limbs, the webbing straps that bind ​the child to the mattress pulled tighter every night. She ​glories in it.

She glories in an adversary worthy of her strength. The ​savage must be controlled; he must be tamed. He must ​learn how to be a child. He cannot know, poor ignorant, ​screaming wretch, what a child should be. But she, the ​nurse, has been taught, over many years, by the ​expectations of those who employ her. A child should be ​quiet and malleable. He should have no desires. He ​should have no will.

Wilfulness is the devil. He should eat and sleep, eat and ​sleep again. Occasionally, clean and neatly dressed, he ​should gurgle and coo at selected relatives. Of the dark ​battles of the nursery, nothing should be seen.

This child is a worthy adversary in the strength of his ​desires and the violence of his struggle, but he has no ​cunning. He can find no other means to achieve what he ​wants.

She feels a certain amount of pity for him and ​contempt. In a harsher society, he would never have ​survived. There is no bounce, no spring to his character. ​He cannot swallow a defeat and then attack from a new ​angle. He continually proclaims his misery and his ​despair. The nurse, bored and disgusted, shuts him in ​the toy cupboard when she can stand his screaming no ​longer.

Stupid child, do you not see that if you do what I desire, ​if you eat and excrete, and are silent, and grow fat, ​then you shall have your heart's desire.”

I knew nothing about this author. A quick Google ​search had me itching to know more and read more ​of her work. Lord Jim at Home is a new edition ​printing, but most of her work is out of print. Let's ​hope there is a renewed interest in this author.

Paris in the Rain

Early in my collecting days I had been a keen collector of ​the work of a young painter, and over the course of a ​few years, not only had I purchased her work, but ​became a regular visitor to her home and studio in ​Sydney. So I was very excited when she issued me an ​invitation to come and stay with them in Paris, where a ​friend had lent them his apartment.

They were to be gone for many months, as there was a ​studio in Japan where she was to be an artist in ​residence. And from there, she and her husband were ​going directly to Paris.

They had no trouble renting their Sydney home and they ​asked me if they could store their valuables and ​treasures in my home at Kurrajong. Their car too of ​course, my pleasure. And while they were in Japan, we ​had many conversations by telephone and always looked ​forward to my stay with them in Paris. I thought a week ​would be fantastic.

As soon as they moved to the Paris apartment, we set a ​date for my arrival. It was arranged that they would ​meet me at the Gare du Nord, with the time and day ​set.

I'm always a prompt person and arrived at the meeting ​place nice and early on a day when it felt like Paris was ​having its annual rainfall in 24 hours. It was pelting ​down.

The agreed-upon time came and went, and no sign of ​my hosts. An hour passed. Two hours. Had something ​happened to them, though I had only spoken to them a ​few days previous?

I had their phone number (way before mobile phones) ​and somehow managed to use a public pay phone. At ​the back of my mind was the possibility that somehow ​the international date line had come into the ​calculation, and I was either a day early or a day late.

You can imagine how shocked I was when they told me I ​was no longer welcome. I pleaded with them to let me ​stay for a night, and I would move on the next day.

“Get a taxi” was the instruction. After a short journey, I ​was put down at what looked like an estate of towers ​and apartments converted from industrial buildings. The ​number system was almost impossible to understand, ​and here I was standing in this torrential rain.

When I did arrive at their door, I was in a state of ​shock, shivering with hurt and wanting to be anywhere ​but here. The City of Light had become, in an instant, ​the City of Darkness.

It was made immediately clear to me that I could stay, ​but for one night only; I was shown to a place on the ​floor. Not even given a blanket or a pillow.

I did not sleep a wink that night and knew I had ​experienced a dark night of the soul. Why was I being ​treated like this by people who had professed to be my ​friends and who had suggested that I come and stay ​with them in Paris?

The next morning, I took off early to try to find some ​accommodation. I walked for hours, but every hotel was ​full as I was to learn that there was a World Cup ​football tournament in Paris.

I would have to return to my hell hole and beg to be ​able to stay one more night. After Paris, I was going on ​to New York, where I was to stay with Ann Lewis in her ​lovely loft.

I asked if I could use the phone in the apartment to see ​if Ann could let me come a week early. “Of course,” she ​said. It was my get-out-of-hell ticket. So, another night ​on the floor. No meals were offered to me. I chose to ​hold up in my corner on the floor, even managing to rig ​a sheet to give me some privacy.

As I left for the airport the following day, the husband ​told me the cost of the phone call I’d made; I threw the ​money at him. “Too much,” he said. ”But you haven't ​charged me for the toilet paper I used?” I Exited, ​knowing that I had crossed back from Hell, and the ​uplands of Heaven-in-New York awaited me.

I did manage one further bit of passing business. I told ​them they had to remove all the stuff in storage at my ​place in Kurrajong, or I would have it moved out onto ​the roadway. “You can't do that,” they said. “We’ll just ​see what I can and will do.” At the last hour of the day, ​which I told them was the final day, a friend of theirs ​arrived with a removal van.

Years went by, and I had nothing further to do with ​them. Then, one day, I bumped into the artist lady at ​the National Gallery in Canberra. We were coming ​towards each other down a narrow ramp. There was no ​way to avoid a meeting.

I was determined to keep walking and say nothing. In ​front of me, she stopped and said, "Hello. A lot of water ​has gone under the bridge." "Never enough," I said. And ​I moved on. They were out of my life forever.

I have, of course, experienced many hurts and ​disappointments in my life. But never anything on this ​scale where I felt wounded to the depths of my spirit. I ​returned to Paris many years later, exorcising these ​unpleasant memories, and the City of Light never shone ​more brightly.

Jack’s Garden of

gethsemane

Recently, a dear friend sent me a news story of a world-​ranking achievement by a Tasmanian woman: she had ​won the prize for having the worst lawn in the world. ​That got me thinking of the lawn my Father put down ​on our new home block. And the subsequent way that ​lawn played into our daily lives for the next 30 years.

Our home went up in a subdivision mapped out from ​the sand dunes of Maroubra, a southern suburb of ​Sydney. Some 40-odd houses were built quickly, and ​part of the deal was that the building had to be ​completed in a specific time frame. And as soon as the ​builders had left, the new homeowners quickly laid turf.

Ah, but not Jack Fay. For he ​determined that the turf supplied was ​full of weeds, and he was having none ​of that. We had moved from a home ​where the entire backyard was asphalt ​fence to fence.

Father might not have heard of ​Capability Brown, but he knew that a ​lawn had to be flat and even and ​should occupy every square inch of ​available ground. That meant that ​Mother's hope to have a small garden ​bed was never in play.

So, while our neighbours were enjoying living with ​lawns, we were restricted to a series of roped-off ​pathways through the soil and the newly sown grass ​seed.

And while he spent hours hand watering the lawn ​(sprinklers left dry patches), he would not stoop to ​water the lemon tree. But it did grow, and years later, in ​his Dementia, he cut it down. (“It was shading the ​lawn”) was the excuse.

I might add that we had three lawnmowers to render ​the correct lawn maintenance. There was the standard ​Victa lawnmower for the first cut. Then a mower with a ​spindle of blades for the next cut. And then a mower ​bought from the Lawn Bowls Club which had a roller to ​finish off the job. Then, he would hose for hours on end ​to encourage the lawn to grow so that the whole ​operation would need to be done again. And again. And ​again.

Now, Father might have been in control of lawn matters ​on his own patch, but after a few years, the trees ​planted by the neighbours were causing him grief. Not ​only were they dropping leaves onto his lawn, but they ​were casting great shadows across it.

Father spent hours lightly sprinkling his 'baby' and ​watching for the growth of green shoots. We got into ​trouble should we stray outside of the stringed ​pathways. On one occasion, Mother was in deep trouble ​as she put a foot outside the allotted zone as she was ​hanging out the washing on the Hills' Hoist.

But the lawn did grow, and Father was rewarded with a ​lawn that was weed-free and perfect. And for hours on ​hours, he spent with his weeding tool removing the ​weeds that had blown from the neighbours' gardens. ​Almost naked, there is no doubt where the first of many ​skin cancers took root.

Years later, a friend of Mother's brought her a quite ​established lemon tree, and greater love hath no man ​for his wife than to let her have a small plot in his lawn ​to plant her lemon tree.

Father moved to a war footing and fought the good ​fight on two fronts. There was the saw and ladder ​approach, where he climbed into the tree and started to ​saw off the offending branches. But the ladder did fall, ​and he was left high in the canopy. A call from the ​neighbour alerted Mother to the situation, and she had ​to put the ladder back in place and assist him from the ​tree—a humiliating withdrawal.

A more secretive strategy was to get to the roots ​themselves. This required digging under the fence, and ​armed with his secateurs, he started on the roots. There ​was a sense of the trenches from World War 1 in this ​operation. But somehow, the tall gum tree withstood ​this assault, and it was still dropping leaves and casting ​shadows right up to the day Father was moved into ​care.

When we moved into our newly built home in 1955, we ​suddenly had new neighbours. People were very ​sociable, and we all became good friends. Cups of sugar ​and jugs of milk were soon passed over the fence to ​help a neighbour out. And very soon we became ​especially close to the Dillon family.

Noela Dillon and my Mother would walk to Church on a ​Sunday together, and the youngest of the Dillon girls, ​Margaret (8), became quite attached to my Father, ​calling him DA. In a way, she became the daughter he ​never had.

The men of the two ​households were not quite ​so close but just good ​neighbours. Jack Dillon ​owned a petrol station and ​wanted to add a Car Wash. ​Not quite sure why, but he ​asked my Father for a loan ​of 2,000 pounds, an ​enormous amount in those ​days.

The money was handed over, and Jack promised an ​early repayment: no paperwork, no promissory note, just ​a shake of hands.

Weeks went by, months, and before long, the first ​anniversary loomed. But Father would not stand up to ​Jack. The loan was a frequent topic of conversation ​around the dinner table, and every now and then, Jack ​would tell my Father that repayment was close.

Nothing happened...

I could see that a terrible friction was developing, and ​the following year, when the Dillons went on a world ​cruise, I decided to take matters into my own hands. ​Upon their return, I approached Jack, telling him that ​the money had to be returned.

For my efforts, I received a torrent of abuse, and Jack ​maintained the line that it was a matter between ​himself and my Father.

After a few more weeks, and still no payment, I went to ​see him again, and this time, I told him that if the ​money was not paid by the end of the week, I would talk ​to Noela, his wife, about the situation. From her ​manner, it was apparent that Noela did not know about ​the loan. And should anything happen to Jack Dillon, we ​had no evidence of the transaction.

When Friday came, and there was no payment made, I ​went straight to Noela to inform her of the situation.

The money was paid that afternoon.

Not long after, my father ​was watering the back ​lawn when Jack put his ​head over the fence and ​said to my Father: "You ​have a poofter for a son." ​In an instant, Dad had ​Jack in his sights and ​was hosing him down.

The men never spoke again. Mother and Noela ​continued to attend church together and remained good ​friends, as did the Dillon girls.

For us, it was as if Jack Dillon never existed. And with ​the return of the loan, my parents enjoyed an overseas ​holiday.

Brother Charles

and his early exit...

Quite by accident this morning, when searching the ​internet for an obituary of a teacher at my old high ​school (Marist Brothers Randwick), I came across a ​history of the school written by a former classmate of ​mine Charles Mcgee, who left us early in the secondary ​years to enter the novitiate to train to be a Marist ​Brother.

I have never seen nor heard of him from that day to ​this.

He titled his history of the school: On a Winner. And ​my first and most overwhelming reaction to this title ​was that he must be writing about another school. For ​my experiences there could in no way be thought to be ​in the winning category.

So, I read with more than a passing interest. And now, ​let's focus on the history as written by Brother Charles, ​covering the years I was there.

There's a lot of muscular endeavour: bricks and mortar, ​working bees from the fathers, and plenty of mentions ​of the mothers involved in motherly pursuits: tuck shop ​duties and fete stalls. However, I did look to see if my ​Mother was listed in the female workforce. No. Her ​efforts at running the sweet stall over many years went ​unrecorded.

At fete time our house would be full of coconut ice, ​toffee apples, rocky road, jellies, chocolate coated nuts. I ​can even see Mum with a thermometer dipping into ​some cauldron to catch the boiling point at the exact ​right time. And this from a lady who couldn't make a ​custard.

And then I came across this. An account of a letter sent ​home to all parents from the Headmaster, Brother ​Edmundus (where do they get their names?).

"Too much indulgence in the comic reading habit is an ​obstacle to genuine study. As there is no opportunity ​for children to develop the comic habit at school, the ​matter is one for the parents. Of course, where comics ​are not merely frivolous but pernicious, your obligation ​in the matter is pretty serious."

Now, Brother Edmundus, let me tell you a secret about ​the boys under your care. There was a thriving comic ​exchange amongst the boys, and many times in class, ​they would read comics under the desk or have them ​masquerading as textbooks.

And while we are talking of matters pernicious, who ​could calculate the deadening effect on our latent ​poetical talents as a result of chanting the school war ​cry written by Brother Edmundus? I quote it in full:

Kurra Kurra Rombay

Hanko Hanko

Zum Bar Zar

Hot Day, Cold Day

Kurra Kurra Rombay

Randwick Randwick

MCR

Red Blue Blue Red

Randwick.

Maybe the ex-students could nominate Brother ​Edmundus for a posthumous Nobel Prize?

It's a pity that there was no effort by those in command ​to establish a library in the school. Or to introduce Art ​into the curriculum. And maybe a Music Department ​would have been a welcome addition as well.

There was a spirit of fear in evidence. Corporal ​punishment was rife (The cane). I don't think there was ​a day when I was not caned: a punishment that came ​as a result of a failure to do one's homework, for ​leaving off an accent on French a word, for using the ​bubblers after the bell had been rung, talking in lines, ​hair too long, crooked margins in our exercise books, ​failure to head each page with a J.M.J. (Jesus, Mary and ​Joseph)....

I could go on and on. The classroom was a place where ​a love of learning played second fiddle to fear that your ​next move could have you caned.

Many of us moved through the system, knowing that ​our school days would end and we would never darken ​the doors again. Yes, one or two teachers were inspired ​despite the regime of terror, and we know who they ​were.

Let me return to Brother Charles and his early exit from ​our midst. Every year, a geriatric Brother (I've forgotten ​his name, but we called him Snowdrop because of his ​mop of snow-white hair) would come into the classroom ​and try to drum up vocations for boys to join the Marist ​Brothers.

If there were a maths test or any other test coming up, ​we would put up our hands to go and have a one-on-​one with Snowdrop in order to get out of the test.

I will never forget the benefits that Snowdrop listed as ​coming to those who signed up: A top spot in ​Heaven....and no worries about food. George Orwell ​could have taken a leaf out of Snowdrop's missal.

I hope that Brother Charles found himself On a Winner.

ALL Lights in the Town hall were

extinguished...

It's a frequently mouthed truism (not) that your school days are ​the best days of your life. Well, some people must lead lives ​filled with horror and punishment for them to think of school ​days in that way.

This morning, I was searching on the internet for any ​biographical details of Mr Radford, the elocution teacher at my ​old school (Marist Brothers Randwick.) Known universally by the ​nickname Rubber Guts, he was let loose in our classrooms for ​half an hour, one day a fortnight. It was a welcome relief from ​the drudgery and monotony of the chalk-and-talk, all eyes to the ​front, no talking and sitting up straight.

Rubber Guts would take us ​through breathing exercises, ​vowel enunciation, diphthongs ​and sibilants. We thought it a ​hoot and played up a treat. ​When the noise level in the ​classroom could be heard ​suburbs away, the Brother ​would burst in the door, cane ​raised, striking at random until ​some semblance of order was ​restored. It was pure chaos.

But Mr Radford did have one goal each year: to produce a verse-​speaking choir to perform at the Annual Speech Night Concert ​and Prize Giving, usually held at the Sydney Town Hall. He saved ​up the best until he was disappeared after what was a disaster. ​But anyone watching from the stalls would remember it as a ​never-to-be-forgotten event.

The poem he selected for the concert was Hist, Hark! by C J ​Dennis. It was a good choice that he was able to arrange for a ​choir of trebles and bases. But old Rubber Guts decided to add ​an extra element that would guarantee disaster.

We were each to have a torch concealed under our coats, and ​when the lights in the Town Hall were extinguished, plunging it ​into darkness, we were to switch on our torches to throw their ​light onto our faces—a real coup de theatre.

But Rubber Guts did not conduct us that evening. He had arrived ​drunk as a skunk, and so a senior boy was thrust into the role of ​conductor. Now, many of us had not thought to check on ​batteries, and so right from the start, there were black holes ​where an illuminated face should have been.

The real fun began as there was much pushing among the ​serried ranks on the choir stand, and boys in the back row ​instantly disappeared over the back of the stand. There one ​minute, gone the next.

By this stage, there were gales of laughter coming from the ​audience. No lad was damaged that night as a result of a fall. ​We gave the audience a great entertainment. And I have never ​forgotten either that poem or the response we received.

Rubber Guts, you are firmly entrenched in the best of my ​schoolboy memories, and to this day, people often comment on ​my accent.

1961

My first date

There was always one major event looming ahead in my ​final year at school. No, not the Leaving Certificate ​examination, though the Chemistry examination I knew ​would be a problem. I don't want to point the finger. ​However, the problems with Chemistry were about the ​teacher; he was the Headmaster of the school and was ​never in class.

We were given reams of printed notes and told to learn ​them. I could handle the rote learning but had to apply ​knowledge to solve chemical problems. I could not make ​the connections.

For the remainder of the subjects, I felt I was doing OK. ​We had some good teachers: two in particular stand out​—Brother Frederick for English and Brother Valens for ​History. Brother Valens broke the mould for the ​approach that set facts in concrete.

There wasn’t just one fact that led to causing the First ​World War, but hundreds. This opened up to me that ​History was a rich source of interpretation, and I have ​never looked back. Thank you, Brother Valens. And it ​was Br Frederick who set me alight with Dickens—a real ​life changer.

But that is not what I am trying to capture. The dread, ​the horror, the nightmare that was moving inexorably ​towards me: THE END OF YEAR FORMAL DANCE.

No girlfriend in tow. In fact, no girls at all. The only girls ​I knew were those next door: the Dillon sisters, aged ​fourteen, ten and eight.

Mum must have sensed my dread (maybe she even ​harboured some suspicions. But it was 1961, and those ​thoughts were just too hot to handle.) I was sixteen ​going on six.

Mum volunteered one day a week at the school tuck ​shop, and she told me that the lady who ran the ​tuckshop had a 16-year-old daughter and maybe I could ​ask her to be my partner. "No, you do it, Mum." And ​answer-came-there back, that Melanie would love to be ​my partner. (Partnered, arranged, shackled: take your ​pick.)

There was no arranged getting-to-know-you meeting ​before the night. Dad drove me to the gates of Hades, ​where Melanie awaited. I was confronted with a girl who ​could have passed for 25. She was tall, slim, and ​attractive....but what stood out was her well-developed ​bosom and a beehive hairdo that looked like a Tower of ​Babel. I was dumbstruck.

She managed to maneuver all her bits into the back ​seat of our small car, and we were off to the ​Paddington Town Hall. I don't think I said a word either ​in the car or at the dance. There were knowing winks ​from the Brothers lined up as we had to present our ​'dates' to the Headmaster.

I have no memory of how the rest of the evening played ​out. Many of my classmates were very keen to dance ​with Melanie, and I'm sure I emerged as a sort of dark ​horse. But believe me, it was an evening spent in hell.

Melanie was returned to her home, undamaged goods, ​untouched by me. It would be many years before I asked ​a girl out. The future looked bleak.

seeing the odd

platypus

By charlie maslin

Peter Fay came into my life as an English teacher during my final two years at school in the mid-1970s. Prior to his ​intervention in the classroom, I was a reader of sorts, but English would have been my least favourite subject. His ​knowledge and enthusiasm, coupled with his infectious, energetic ability to convey that to us, really brought the subject ​to life for us all who were fortunate enough to land in his classroom.

Donne, Chaucer, Brontë, Coleridge, and Pinter….all became fascinating with his take on it and the way he imparted his ​knowledge. In previous years they had been a slog for me to learn, let alone enjoy. Now, 49 years later, after our last ​lesson in the classroom, we still remain in touch with the occasional visit, but mostly by phone and email, to catch up ​on news and a book or two suggested for me to read.

The last time I visited Peter and Robin was in Hobart last December. A truly joyous occasion, wandering through the ​treasure trove of their house, enjoying their art, their lifetime collections, the softness and beauty of the layer on layer ​of carpets, but most importantly, the amble through the luxuriant softness, colour and scent of the garden he has ​created in “the back-yard”.

When I was there some six years ago with my daughter Madeleine, the garden was mainly the vegetable patch, with an ​assortment of pots and some plantings just starting. Today, it is very small paths, meandering through an abundance ​of interesting plants, that in some places, you need to almost “fight your way through” to get to the next little gem ​around the corner.

It reminded me of my grandmother's garden, down at Merimbula, which she created between the ages of about 75 and ​95. I think it was the eleventh garden she had done, and when I asked her what she loved about it, she said, “You have ​to have a bit of colour, kid, every month of the year”. She called everyone kid, even Mrs MacPherson, who was two years ​her senior and, at the time, still running her drapery store in Pambula, which she did till the age of 100!

That’s how I know Peter, and he asked me to contribute to his blog, not about any of this … but about the Platypus!

Since the early 1980s, I’ve been a farmer on the southern treeless plains called the Monaro, between Cooma and ​Bombala, just north of the Victorian Border. We run sheep and cattle in a grazing operation and are fortunate to have a ​beautiful stream named Cambalong Creek running through the centre of the property.

The Cambalong rises about 20 odd km to our north near Nimmitabel, twists and turns for 17-18 km through us, and ​maybe 15 km after it leaves our bottom boundary runs into the Bombala River, then the Delegate River, and finally into ​the Snowy River on is way down to Orbost/Marlo in Victoria.

As a child, I spent much time on the creek and remember seeing the odd Platypus. Maybe my radar then wasn’t tuned ​that way, but it did seem there were big gaps between sightings. It was always something to savour when you spotted ​one, then remaining rigid so you could hopefully see it again when it resurfaced.

I came back to work at home in the early 1980s, at the end of a four-year drought. The country was really chewed ​down, the native poa tussocks were back to small brittle stumps, and the creek corridor especially was devoid of any ​vegetation for 100m or so along either bank, for almost its entire length through us. This was so because almost all of ​our 50-odd paddock dams were dry, with no runoff for ages, and paddocks were successively opened up for stock water ​access to the one source that remained, the Cambalong.

I thought then that this was the consequence and unavoidable result of drought. The creek had stopped flowing for the ​previous three years, and the big pools remaining became the lifeblood of the stock. Along our section of the ​Cambalong, we have about 30 “permanent” water holes, with rapids and meandering shallow streams connecting them.

Charlie Maslin - The Disruptor

The property came into our family in 1911 and was run by my grandfather (and the garden was one of the early ones ​my grandfather mentioned above created… she said to my grandmother when she came to live here, “I want the front ​fence moved out 100m, so I can get a garden going” and she sure did that!). My grandfather lost his only brother in ​World War 1 at Passchendaele, and he always felt (I think) that he hadn’t done his bit…his father wouldn’t let him enlist ​alongside his younger brother.

When World War 2 came along, he offered up half of the property for ​soldier settlement (the half, I guess in his mind, that his brother would have ​had), which was a rare thing to do as most families resisted any enforced ​carve-up of their land. He must have been through some dry periods ​because he hung onto all of the Cambalong Creek corridors and gave up ​outstandingly fertile land around the property's periphery.

Today, 75 years later, two of those properties still remain with the original ​returned soldier families, a testament to the quality of the land they ​received, as they were able to make a good go of it. In contrast, in many ​other areas of soldiers' settlement, they couldn’t because of the lack of scale ​or production ability.

What does this have to do with Platypus? Well, just the fact that we have ​been privileged to have a great tract of a beautiful riparian zone under our ​care, and I feel to be able to make a positive impact on it. This is not only ​for the “life” along the river but the well-being of those who depend on it ​downstream of us as well.

About ten years into my time of management in the mid-1990s, we went into a pretty horrible El Niño drought, and I ​was staring down the barrel of that scene I’d described when I first came home. I was discussing the looming scenario ​(bare ground, stressed paddocks, and poor stock) with a local agronomist with whom I’d been to uni and what I ​envisaged might happen. He said to me, you need to think about a change to the way you graze the country.

Being from an economics background, I’d been changing yards, building laneways, improving labour efficiency, sowing ​paddocks, investing off-farm….but grazing…how do you change that? (If you are interested, look up “Soils for ​Life/Gunningrah Case Study”, and some info and a bit of a summary will come up…a great legacy of the late Governor-​General Michael Jeffery)

Back to the creek, once we got the grazing in order, basically by resting paddocks and plants for long periods, the first ​thing to come to life was the creek.

The banks re-vegetated pretty quickly, first with weeds from the abundant supply of weed seeds, but by the second ​year, perennial plants were starting to take over. By year three, most of the thistles, which once dominated, were ​struggling to germinate with the native and introduced grasses growing freely in the moist environment and competing ​with them.

In the stream, reeds started to grow, a few more willows took hold to preserve banks, the water cleared up and became ​better filtered in flood times, and soil was being deposited from upstream in areas of slow flow…. rather than eroding ​and adding to the turbidity of the water.

We also employed some of the principles employed by Peter Andrews, the Natural Sequence Farming guy you may have ​seen some years ago on Australian Story…one of the most watched episodes of that program. He and his son Stuart ​have been to Gunningrah on a number of occasions and talked to those who have come along to hear their story and to ​see in practice what we have done.

In a nutshell, Peter and Stuart describe how Australia's streams once flowed, how they adapted to almost thrive in the ​dry times thrown at them, and how we can change our management now to try to bring back those natural systems to ​improve our drought resilience.

Back to the Platypus!

Since we have made these changes, it seems that the Platypus enjoys the new habitat which is being restored. We made ​the switch in our grazing techniques in March 1996 and haven’t looked back. Change to the broader and riparian ​landscapes happened pretty quickly. Nature is a great healer if given the chance.

If I were to return to that time, I would have tried to record more data. The ​main things I recorded were ground cover and water infiltration, which were ​going in the right direction….. and while running the equivalent of 25,000 to ​30,000 sheep with only one other helper most of the time, there wasn’t ​much time to bury my head in other data collection.

Ground cover picked up from 60-70% to 90-100%, and water infiltration ​rates basically doubled…more rainfall going into the soil to grow plants, ​more going down into aquifers, and less running off at speed, causing sheet ​or stream erosion.

We noticed the Platypus numbers increasing from the occasional sighting in ​the early days to seeing them at almost any time (if the water was nice and ​still) in some places.

I recorded sightings with the Australian Platypus Conservancy for maybe a decade, and our incidence of seeing them ​was around 8-9 times out of 10. In contrast, the average for all data sent in across the country was from memory of ​about one sighting in 10. (Maybe many of those were from more urban/semi-urban environments where they might be ​more shy….or I tended to look when conditions were right, as I know the difficulties when not?)

We now have them, or at least I’ve spotted them, in about 15 of the 30 water holes we have on the property. On one ​memorable occasion a few years ago, while wandering along the length of about a 500m long hole with a friend, we ​spotted eight individuals over the space of about half an hour.

It is such a joy to take a visitor who has never seen one in the wild over to a favourite spot and watch their eyes light ​up when one surfaces, swims about and then dives. And as for being shy, quite often, it seems once they know you are ​there and no threat, they happily paddle about even with noise and movement not so far away.

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Paintings Lucy Culliton