Apocalypse Now

The recent and ongoing bushfires raging across Australia give one a feeling of living in an end of days scenario.  Here in Melbourne today there is a haze of smoke, but otherwise I feel lucky to be in the city and not out in the bush. So far this summer in Melbourne has been fairly mild and tolerable. I suppose that might change as we move towards February which normally is the hottest month.

I can’t imagine what it would have been like in Mallacoota or Kangaroo Island and the other hot spots in the country. Bravo to the voluntary fire fighters.

With the bushfires dominating the news, my mind can’t help but think back to my childhood in the North East Victorian town of Woods Point, which was wiped out in the Black Friday fires of 13 January 1939.

The memory of those fires still lingered in the late 1950s when we lived in the town.  I used to worry every summer and fret about how I could save our animals from the flames.

We did bushfire evacuation drills at the school, marching from the school to the Morning Star mine to a shelter in one of the shafts.

Woods Point Hospital where we lived in the 1950s

The old Woods Point Hospital in 1905 before it was destroyed in the 1939 bushfire

The above black and white photo is one of several sent to me by former childhood friend Shirley who lived next door to the hospital.

Photo of me and my brothers with Shirley and her dog 1950s

Back in these modern times,  support for Windows 7 expires today. Rather than update this present five year old computer to Windows 10, I’ve opted to buy a brand new desktop, and have ordered a custom made machine from my favourite computer shop Cnet Technology in Preston.

It should be ready to pick up this week and I’m looking forward to firing it up despite it operating on Windows 10. It has all the bells and whistles – a fast CPU, lots of RAM, a sizeable (500 GB) Solid State Drive plus a second  1TB hard drive for data, a whizbang 4 GB Graphic Card, etc etc.

Thinking back over the 25 or so years since my first computer, Windows 10 will mark the seventh operating system I will have to master. Of course you can also count my iPad (OS 10) and mobile phone (new as well) with Android Version 9.

No doubt it will take me at least a day to attach the peripherals and load software. Cross fingers my old verions of MS Office and Dreamweaver MX will still work.

I’m pleasurably anticipating returning to the races in a little under a fortnight for the build up to the Autumn racing season, with the Blue Diamond Previews at Caulfield on 25 January.

There was a fine taster on the Gold Coast last Saturday with the Magic Millions race day. I even had a few bets on a couple of races and was delighted that Chris Waller trained mare Invincibella won the Fillies & Mares Magic Millions for the third consecutive time, paying $5.00 for the win.  I also invested a small sum on Conceited in the Two Year Old Classic. Though not winning, he payed $3.00 for running third.

Alligator Blood, if ever there was a future star of the turf, won the Three Year Old Guineas in fine style after much drama getting to the course. I would have placed money on him, but his odds were so short it wasn’t worth it. Hopefully we’ll get to see him in Melbourne over the Autumn Carnival.

We may be living in a dystopian world, but there are still enjoyable things to do amid the doom and gloom.

So Long Leonard

Leonard Cohen live at Rod Laver Arena –10 February 2009

I heard the news today that the great songwriter and poet Leonard Cohen had died, so here are my memories of the man and his music.

Ironically, two days after a misogynist ladies man won the US Presidential Election, another much gentler, more respectful, ladies man departed this earth.

The mists of  time shroud my memories of when I first heard of Leonard Cohen, but it must have been back in the late 1960s, as I remember I had  copies of his first few albums in my record collection.

He really suited our generation, or those of us who pretended to be soulful and poetic, in between the sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, though in a way his lyrics expressed all that too.

I was lucky enough to see him in concert twice, first  in 1980 at the Melbourne Comedy Theatre, which I thought an hilarious venue for a singer who was known to write “songs to slit your wrists by”.

My memories of the concert are vague, but I remember being surprised at how funny he was in person, and came away from the concert with a very positive impression.

The second concert was at a considerably bigger venue, the Rod Laver Arena in 2009.

I wrote a review of the show on my blog here, so I won’t go into detail except to say it was one of the best concerts I have ever seen.

The new world will not have Leonard Cohen as one of its citizens, and will be the poorer for it, but his memory will live long with those of us who loved his songs and music all those years ago in the old, old world.

Dare To Struggle, Dare To Swim–The Save the Lemmings Campaign of 1970

A long time ago in a faraway galaxy, ie my past,  I was associated with the Melbourne Anarchists.

At that time it was de riguer to belong to a political club at University and I chose the Anarchists, because their philosophy appealed to my rebellious spirit, and they also had a cool badge: a simple red button with TREASON written across it in black letters. TREASON is an acronym of “The Revolutionary Emancipists Against State Oppression and Nationalism.”

The other political groups to choose from were the Maoists, Socialists and the University Labour Club.

The anarchists regarded the other leftist groups as too serious, so set about organising a festival dubbed Carnival Anarchism in mockery of the earnest SDS supporters.

I believe it was my long time friend David who thought up the Lemming Campaign, where it was decided to storm the Swedish Consulate in protest against their treatment of the lemmings, ie driving them to commit suicide.

The demonstration was set down to take place on 25 July 1970, and the Anarchists, with help from the Goon Club were busy producing manifestos and revolutionary flyers. I contributed by composing an anthem – A Hymn for Lemming Aid:

The lemmings fate it haunts us yet,
In these dark days could we forget
That they in deep despair do bide
And drown their hopes in suicide.

Upon the tundra long ago,
A lemming tree stood in the snow
Where every five years at its roots
The lemmings held their lemming moots.

But oh to tell the saga sad
The tree was felled by men so bad
And every lemming far and near
Drowned itself in grief and fear.

Chorus (after each verse)

We raise our lemming banner high
Without our help they still might die
Though men may rant and men may rave
Perforce their fate we still may waive.

To finish the dirge rightly it is customary to chant the haunting refrain known long ago in the book of lemming folklore as "The Lay of the Last Lemming" which they all sing as they fling themselves into the cold north sea.

It is passed down to us, corrupted by the years as "Lemon Tree".

Lemming tree very pretty
And the lemming flower is sweet
But alas for the poor lemmings
No longer can they meet.

The song was sung to the tune of the revolutionary song The Red Flag.

I recorded the Lemming day of action in my diary and I give my verbatim account below:

We made it a pretty early night on Friday, in order to be up early the next morning for Lemming Day.

I managed to stagger up at 8.30 and was ready, lamingtons*, megaphone** and all when David & Christine came to fetch me.

The demo was great fun. There were about 20 to 30 people who came, laden with placards and balloons, to romp up and down Toorak Road, down to the Village and back to the Consulate in St George’s Road.

We created some impression on Toorak and they thought us all mad or irresponsible. My lemming song was sung countless times – practically at every street corner. Someone had brought their guitar and could play “Red Flag” so we had a good accompaniment.

A few people objected to us – “Go out to work”,  snarled one woman, “justify your existence!” “If you’re educated , then I’m glad I’m not”, screamed another.

There was a lovely lady who followed us in her car and brought us more balloons and a long horn to blow outside the Consulate.

We did the usual demo stuff – chanted slogans like “Ho, ho Lemming power”. Cries of “To the consulate” echoed down St Georges Road in mockery of July 4th.***

When we got back to the Consulate after wandering about Toorak, a cop car was parked in the driveway. They were very nice coppers. We sat down in front of them and sang “The Hymn for Lemming Aid”. Someone distributed Lemming newsheets to them. They conducted us from their car and let us write lemming slogans in the dust on their car.

“Where are you going now?” they asked after speeches and summonses for a confrontation with the Swedish Ambassador. “Dunno” we said, “Where do you want to go?”

Everyone decided to disperse after that. The cops escorted us to our cars, and waited till we’d all gone.

Everyone, except the Wizard, was for Lemming Aid. He held a counter revolution on the other side of the road.

“Marxist Lemmingists!” he yelled, “Go home you commie bastards” He’s a natural idiot, the Wizard. He’s resident in Melbourne for a couple of months. He has formed his own group at Uni, called “Sons of Albion”.

When checking out the internet for this post, I was astounded to discover that the Wizard, aka Ian Channell is still going strong and is just as eccentric as I remember him.

* Lamingtons were a natural addition to the Lemming Day Of Action, their name being so reminiscent of the animals we were supporting. There was some idea of throwing them at the Consulate, but I think they all got eaten before that could happen.

** Megaphone -  this ideal haranguer somehow came into my possession, how, when and where I now can’t remember. It accompanied me and the Anarchists on many demonstrations.

*** July 4th is of course American Independence Day and back in the 1960s and early 1970s, due to the ongoing Vietnam War, we used to hold demonstrations outside the US Consulate on that day. At that time the American Consulate was in Commercial Road, South Yarra.

The Melbourne Anarchists still exist and have a shop front in St Georges Road, Northcote. They were recently in the news with their stubborn refusal to move from the property, with high rise appartment blocks being built on either side of their establishment.

Tripping Down Memory Lane

The stars must be in a particularly significant alignment, as this last week has sent me back to remembering times past and even receiving, quite out of the blue, a communication from a childhood friend, who I have not seen nor heard from in over fifty years. 

She sent me this photo of us all as children in Woods Point

Then there was the documentary on ABC TV,  Whitlam: The Power & The Passion which heady period I remember very well.  Gough Whitlam will always be my favourite Prime Minister  and I recall how it felt when he won the 1972 election. A friend remarked at the time “Even the stars look different…” And too, how angry and betrayed we all felt when he was toppled.  The documentary captured the period vividly, and I wept once more when Gough spoke his famous words
“Well, may we say, “God Save the Queen” because nothing will save the Governor General”.

If ever there was a time to flog off my old posters from the Dismissal era, it is now. But I can’t bring myself to part with them.

That was the 1970s, however, stumbling across an old issue of the Melbourne University newspaper Farrago, I was transported back to the 1960s, 1967 in particular.

What struck me as I browsed through the pages of this ancient artefact, was how typical of the times was the content of the issue, which featured Prosh Week 1967.

What amused me the most, was the ads.

Genevieve was a cafe in Faraday Street Carlton where in those days you could purchase a coffee for 10 cents and a spaghetti bolognaise for 50 cents, staple food for the poor students we were at the time.

Peter Poynton’s was a popular drinking hole, also in Carlton, where my friends and I spent many a happy hour.

The Love In was a colourfully painted establishment on the corner of Faraday and Drummond Streets Carlton. As a group of us lived just up the road from it we naturally entered its portals to groove on the light shows, listen to the music and watch movies. It all looks rather innocent by today’s standards, serving only coffee and snacks and nothing stronger. We hadn’t at that stage indulged in any mind expanding drugs, alcohol being the drug of preference then.

The scanned page below has a review of the Love In written in somewhat purple prose.

You wish…

One of Carlton’s cultural establishments – Mondo Music, where you could buy the latest records. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band was hot that year.

Discurio  was still going strong up to last year when it was sold to the Title Group (whoever they are).

Live music

Computer Dating 1960s style!

I wasn’t aware that you could become a computer programmer in the 1960s, though I do remember seeing CSIRAC or its successor, through a window in the Physics Department.

 

Cheap hair cuts and smokes

And look at the cost to travel for 30 days in China in 1967!

I remember 1967 as one of the best year’s of my life. It was full of parties, craziness and wild living and I met life long friends whom I still see frequently. Others have passed away, others beyond my ken.

Here’s an excerpt from my diary, describing what we did for Prosh Week in August 1967.

Prosh Day yesterday was quite exciting, though we must have got carried away for we did some mad things. We did a wild hippy dance and love in demonstration in the Town Square, charged through the streets of Melbourne, yelling “love, love love”, ate flowers for TV camera men (and we didn’t even get onto the news!). It seemed quite successful in all. There were students everywhere down the street, swarming in and out of shops, rattling cans on street corners – it felt good to be a student. There was a sort of comradeship about them all. People whom one  would never approach normally, were old friends. It was like a mad kaleidoscope dream, but all was deflated, flat by the end of the day.

The stern old Anne of today frowns on such frivolous behaviour, but I was so much younger then and lived life to the hilt in the fabulous 1960s.

Remembrance of Things Past

Earlier this week my work unit went to a farewell lunch for a colleague at a Vegan café in Fitzroy, not far from work.

The departing colleague was a Vegan hence the choice of the eatery and I must admit it was a good choice as the food was very tasty.

It was a tiny place and the person running it looked familiar to me, from somewhere back in the distant past. He kept looking at me as if he knew me as well and it turns out we were acquainted something like 38 years ago. As I was paying my bill, he mentioned that he knew me when I lived in a mansion in Parkville with W, my boyfriend at the time. He was a friend of W and I had met W at the place they shared at that time.

Anyway it brought back memories of living at Mount Ievers, the mansion in question.

It does sound rather glamorous, but in fact I lived in the back garden in a small self contained one roomed hut. It was a great place to live. The mansion was a grand old towered structure called Mount Ievers set in a large garden, situated on Royal Parade. The main house was divided up into flats and also had about 10 dwellings out the back in various shapes and sizes. My hut was furnished with a bed, a wardrobe, table and chairs and had a tiny stove and a sink. Someone once remarked to me that it looked like a gypsy caravan. It was set out in the back garden, up against the old inner circuit railway cutting. Trains only ran occasionally, about one a day, so it was generally pretty quiet. There was a motel on the opposite side of the cutting. (See picture here - my room was on the left bank)

I lived at Mount Ievers for five years and only left when the place was sold to a developer who promptly demolished it and built a block of flats in its stead. I doubt if they would be allowed to do this these days. Mount Ievers was built in 1890 and was the family home of William Ievers, a prominent early Melbournian. It still belonged to the family when I lived there in the late 1960s. Old Mrs Ievers, who lived in another beautiful mansion a few doors down from Mount Ievers used to sit out in the garden and supervise the gardener. We paid our rent to her grandsons who lived in other grand houses in the Parkville area.

My hut cost me $9.00 a week - rather expensive - considering my weekly income at the time was about $20.00, but well worth it. It was close to Melbourne University and afforded me an independent lifestyle in a beautiful setting.

When I first moved in (1968) most of the back garden residents were elderly, but this changed over the years as more students occupied the vacated units. The social life of the place livened up no end after that, and I remember afternoons of lounging around in the garden with the other young residents, playing cards and drinking wine. They were fun days, full of sunshine and laughter.

The huts were attractively built and furnished with what today would be antique furniture. I still have a very handsome oak chair I took as a memento from Mount Ievers when I moved out. The backyard residences also had odd features like stained glass windows and decorative pressed tin ceilings. I ended up living in three different places, moving from my original hut to a slightly larger one (it had two rooms), then on to one which had its own shower. That flat was at the very back and looked out on an orchard of quince trees. Ivy was invading the shower space, so it was pleasant showering amid greenery.

My first hut seen through foliage	The second dwelling

I lived there with two cats, Morgan and Tam, and when I was forced to move took them with me. Alas Morgan disappeared shortly after I moved into the new place, then Tam vanished as well.

The five years I spent at Mount Ievers were some of the best of my life. I started my book collection about then, and I remember reading Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past and Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain Fournier in that first little hut, so Mount Ievers in my memory has a sort of lost domain, Proustian glow. I still dream of it every now and then.

Here’s what I wrote in my diary when I first saw the place.

I swear I wrote the bulk of this entry today at work, and only this evening hunted through my old diary for this entry. It's uncanny how the young Anne of the diary echoes the sentiments of the old Anne writing this blog.

As always click for larger images...

The Argonauts Club

Last Monday evening on ABC TV, Peter Thompson’s guest on his Talking Heads segment at 6.30pm (an excellent interview program) was the Australian artist Jeffrey Smart.

As with the greater number of Peter Thompson’s talking heads, Jeffrey Smart had an interesting early life and has achieved fame in his chosen profession. Now he is regarded as one of Australia’s best artists and I must admit I really like his surreal urban landscape paintings. You can see some them on this site.

One of his claims to fame is that he spoke the first words on Australian Television back in 1956 on The Children’s Hour show.

Now, the Children’s Hour was originally a radio show broadcast across the width & breadth of Australia and it was also known as The Argonauts Club. It was immensely popular and encouraged creative participation from the audience in the form of artistic or written compositions. It ran from 1941 to 1972. I was a member of the club in the 1950s when I was living in the bush, far from any major town. The children’s hour broadcasts became the highlight of our lives. We also were addicted to other radio serials like Superman, Biggles and Hop Harrigan in pre television days.

The Argonauts Club was based on the legend of Jason & the Argonauts and each member of the “crew” was given a ship name (from Greek mythology) and number. My Argonaut name was Erato30. It was an early version of the anonymous user names and avatars of the internet. Later, on television, the aliases were dropped and the child’s real name was read out .There were various hierarchies to aspire to. The more you contributed the more points you scored. The ultimate level was Golden Fleece and Bar. I got nowhere near that, not even to Dragons Tooth level, but I remember what a thrill it was to have one’s own composition read out over the airwaves.

For each broadcasted contribution you received a blue certificate. If you managed to collect five or six blue certificates you won a book.

One of my paintings made it onto the television show hosted by Jeffrey Smart who was also an early presenter on the radio version and was called Phidias in the Argonauts Club. I did not witness my painting on screen but was told about it by relatives, who had. If I recall, it was a painting of a fire blasted forest. Long lost, unless it is sitting in an ABC archive somewhere.

The above picture is the logo of the Argonauts Club. I remember, when you first joined up, you were sent a membership certificate with your ship name and a badge. It was a stylish green and silver enamel badge of the ship in the logo above. It went missing long ago, but I do recollect once, when I was working in a bookshop, a customer came in wearing one on his lapel. I recognised it instantly.

Anyway, it was interesting seeing old Phidias on TV the other night – it certainly took me back…

Boys with Toys

B took possession of a new car on Monday. He traded in his conservative Honda sedan for a Mercedes sports coupe. I must admit it is a thing of beauty, a sleek silver machine with all mod cons or wankeries as I call them, like satellite navigation, automatic everything. Admittedly I am not a petrol head and have never learned to drive, so cars are not something I take very seriously and I normally can’t tell the difference between one car or another.

However, for B it is the attainment of an earthly desire. He’s been lusting for an expensive sports car for years and finally selected a Mercedes, based on several factors, like anti theft protection, seating etc. I had a ride in it last night, and I must admit it was comfy.

It’s a bit late for me, in terms of the song The Ballad of Lucy Jordan, to ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair. After all, I’m way past the age of thirty-seven. But at the age of sixty I can at least ride through Melbourne, or the Paris end of Collins Street, with the warm wind in my hair. Somehow that doesn’t quite capture the desperate romance of the original song.

Back in the days of my foolish twenties, boys with sports cars had a certain charm, and I did get to ride with a few of them.

One had a little red MG with fur lined doors and I remember my brother had a Citroen . The most memorable ride was after a wedding, where a fellow wedding guest and I took off after the celebrations in his red sports car - another MG - and went on a wild drive around Melbourne University, including the underground car park which was featured as a setting in the original Mad Max movie - then through the city to St Kilda Road. We swam in a fountain (pictured above) outside the Shrine of Remembrance, swigging Cointreau, before damply collapsing back in my little room in Parkville. In those days people did drink and drive as matter of course. It’s amazing we survived, though come to think of it, some didn’t.

Other stuff, cats included…

Yesterday we had an evaporative cooling system installed to combat the extreme heat of some of Melbourne’s summer days and nights. One of the workmen brought his dog with him – a large Labrador called Douglas. This of course alarmed the cats no end. Douglas chased Willy over the road and back again, Willy eventually taking refuge elsewhere. Lizzie took one look – eek! dog! - jumped the fence to next door and refused to come back home even when the dog had gone, maintaining a stubborn vigil on a shelf on the next door neighbour’s fence. The neighbour actually built the shelf for her some time ago as he doesn’t mind visits from our cats and provides handy fence jumping aids along the party fence. Timmy, on the other hand, held his ground and spent the day under a table, hissing if Douglas came near.

The three cats are getting on well these days, though Willy still maintains a wary distance from Timmy, unless, as was the case this morning, when he is very hungry he will barge in on Timmy’s plate and push him aside fearlessly. Lizzie has no problem with Timmy and these two elderly cats sit companionably together as if they were the best of friends.

The Solomon Islands

Reading Mister Pip brought back memories of a holiday B and I had in 1990 where we spent two weeks in the Solomon Islands.

It was a very interesting and unusual holiday and was brought about at the instigation of my Uncle Lenny who lived there. He had gone to the Solomons shortly after the war, having fallen in love with the idea of the fuzzy wuzzy angels who had helped the Australian and American armies during the battle for Guadalcanal.

Uncle Lenny was my father’s third youngest brother (there were seven brothers in all) and had volunteered for the army in 1939. He saw action in a number of the great battles of World War II – Greece, Crete and El Alamein. He was wounded three times and eventually was sent home as unfit for service.

After the war Lenny found a vocation for missionary work and eventually became a Marist brother and took up his work in the Solomon Islands. He remained there for over 40 years until his death in 2000.

He was my favourite uncle during my childhood as he always bought me a book whenever he visited. He maintained a friendship with my mother throughout the years after my father’s death in 1949.

Anyway, Lenny was always inviting us to visit and stay with him in the Solomons so eventually I decided to go.

When we alighted from the plane at Henderson airport on Guadalcanal, notwithstanding being hit with the heat of the tropics, we were plunged into a kind of tropical Father Ted show. We were whisked off to a nun’s house and fed a ghastly repast which we felt obliged to eat even though we’d eaten plenty on the plane. It consisted of pretty basic fare like spam in aspic. In fact the food in the Solomon Islands was nothing to write home about as meat was scarce and had to be imported from Australia. Of course there were pigs and chickens all over the place but they were being saved for special celebrations. We didn’t get to eat any of them, except when Sister whatever cooked us a roast chicken which we transported in its pan back to the uncle’s place over miles of bumpy roads, the grease slopping everywhere.

Lenny's House at Aruligo

Uncle Len lived at a place called Aruligo which is at the north western end of the island about a half hour drive from Honiara. It was beautiful, a tropical paradise by the sea, overlooking Savo Island and Iron Bottom Sound where battleships of World War II were strewn in great numbers under the water. Aruligo was used as a setting in the film The Thin Red Line. Lenny was the only white person there, living by a native village and a small coconut plantation.

The Welcoming Choir - Justina is the girl at the back on the right

When we reached Aruligo that first night we were greeted by the village and welcomed with a song and dance organised by Lenny’s housekeeper, the wonderful Justina. She was a young woman of the village and was an incredibly sweet person. She was multi skilled - she could even drive a truck. Trucks were the primary method of transport in the Solomon Islands because you could fit half a village in the tray of the vehicle.

Truck transport

As my uncle was of the religious brotherhood, we hobnobbed with a variety of priests and even the Catholic Bishop of the Solomon Islands. They were an extraordinary collection of characters, these priests, and friendly, interesting guys. B, having no religious background, unlike me who was pretty well raised in convents, was initially somewhat nonplussed at meeting so many of the Catholic fraternity, but relaxed when he realised they were laid back guys who enjoyed a beer with best.

Malaitan village on an island on Langa Langa Lagoon

We visited priests in outposts further from Aruligo. There was Father Percy who welcomed us with a cigarette in one hand and a whisky in the other, calling on the native boys to stuff beer in his fridge, and another who lived on Malaita Island.

View from behind pilot on the way to Malaita

We flew to Malaita on a tiny plane sitting directly behind the pilot. It was quite an amazing flight and it was hard to believe how we could land on a small clearing cut out of the jungle which was indeed Malaita airport. Whilst there we took a trip to Langa Langa lagoon, which is dotted with man made islands. In Malaita there is a cult of shark calling, though we didn’t witness this. B however had a close encounter with a coral shark while snorkelling off the reef close to Aruligo. When asked about sharks in the area, the native people would just laugh as if the answer was obvious. Coming back from Malaita we travelled on the Compass Rose a cargo cum passenger vessel laden with bananas, coconuts and pineapples as well as betel nut chewing natives. We were the only white folk on board. From the deck you could see flying fish and dolphins, but down below, to which we were eventually obliged to descend due to the wind, it was muggy and we passed the five hour voyage in a fug of tropical heat watching the rituals of betel nut ingestion. A stick of coral is stirred into the mix to add a touch of lime. The betel nut chewers are distinguished by dreadfully stained teeth. I was not tempted to try it.

Native hut

The Melanesian people of the Solomon Islands are lovely folk, happy and friendly. We were treated like vice regal visitors in the outlying villages. Everyone knew Lenny and his welcome was extended to us.

The current political troubles had not started when we were there in 1990, though there was an undercurrent of dislike on the part of the Guadalcanal people for the Malaitans.

The view from Lenny's veranda - Savo Island is in the distance

Lenny’s house in Aruligo was right next to the sea. It had no beach; the land running directly into the sea, with the coconut palms marching straight to the edge. The water was warm and clear. Close to the water’s edge was a fresh, and cool, small spring-fed pool. The local villagers used it to wash their clothes and themselves and I preferred swimming in it to the ocean.

B & I slept on camp stretchers. In the night we could hear giant cockroaches scuttling between us and the chirping of the geckos permeated the night air. I liked the geckos; they were about the only wild life, other than cane toads, that we saw in any great quantity.

There are a great many relics of the battle for Guadalcanal lying around in the jungle and we visited a small museum which was maintained by an evangelical fellow. He had a collection of old aeroplanes and other military equipment.

B leaning against an old plane from World War II at outdoor museum

It was hot of course, but in the afternoon the sea breezes cooled us as we lounged on the veranda of Lenny’s sea side house. After dark, mosquitoes were out in force and I managed to get a small tropical ulcer after a bite became infected. The natives were all more or less prone to malaria and tropical ulcers, some of which were horrific to behold – gaping wounds where the ulcer had penetrated almost to the bone. Lenny had a sort of clinic going on Sunday after mass where he dispensed malaria tablets and dressed wounds. B helped him during the time we were there and won the gratitude of the people.

Waiting for medical treatment on Lenny's veranda - Lenny is standing on the left

Flywire screens were de rigueur as were louvered windows in all the houses we visited – the flywire to stop the mossies and louvers for primitive air conditioning.

It was a laid back place, everyone did things slowly and it took forever to get anything fixed. For instance, Lenny’s electricity generator was working the first night we were there, and then broke down. It was fixed two weeks later on the day before we left. It made cooking rather difficult as there was only a gas hotplate. Somehow or other – B and I took over the cooking shortly after we arrived – we managed by balancing saucepans on top of each other. We ate a lot of salads.

On our last night at Aruligo the village people cooked us up a feast which consisted of fish and various other native delicacies, all of which were very tasty. They also put on a show of dancing which they found hilarious and we found amusing.

Dancer

Despite the primitive accommodation and the tropical heat, we were both very sorry to leave, having grown very fond of the villagers. Driven by Justina, the entire village piled into the truck and came to the airport to see us off. We were touched by this gesture and the hostess ushering us on board the plane was impressed.

The farewell committee at the airport

B reckons it was best holiday he’s ever had and I agree. It was certainly interesting and we were lucky to be able to meet so many of the people, visit different places and see so much local colour.

We also saw things we’d never seen before, like fireflies, flying fish and a hibiscus that changed colour as the day progressed. It started out white in morning and gradually grew more flushed until it was a deep red by late afternoon. Plant life was profuse – anything would grow in the rich soil. Coconut palms were everywhere and you had to be careful not to walk under them as a dropping coconut would kill in a flash if it landed on your head. They made a loud thump when they fell.

Solomon Islands culture, with its bloodthirsty past was typified by the deity Nguzunguzu who is represented as carrying a skull (for war) or a bird (for peace). Used as a figurehead on head hunting canoes, Nguzunguzu’s image is common. At the bishop’s house, in the dining room, there was a very fine carving of Nguzunguzu carrying a bird. He is also on the Solomon Island dollar coin.

Carving of Nguzunguzu

We have at home a carving of a devil devil given to us by Justina’s friend, Thomasina. She gave it to us as a going away present. It sits on top of a stereo speaker in our living room. I am unsure of what it actually means, but it looks attractively weird. Wood carvings of sharks and dolphins were easy to come by and very cheap. I bought several as presents for relatives.

Australia Day

Today is Australia Day. We get a public holiday for the occasion so it's popular for that reason.

I am not going to go all nationalistic and put the Australian flag on this entry.

I find it quite disturbing that the flag has become an issue in terms of The Big Day Out, where the organisers attempted to ban people wearing it in an attempt to curtail racist violence. The PM of course was all against this action by the organisers and forced them into an about face.

Since when have Australians become so nationalistic? It appears to be a fairly recent development and has escalated since the Cronulla riots of 2005.

In my youth, the only flags I was interested in waving were revolutionary flags when we marched our little feet off in the anti Vietnam war rallys of the early 70s.

Australia, being such a multicultural place, has never been all that nationalistic until recently. Yeah, we had to salute the flag when we were at primary school and parrot the words:

"I love God and my country, I will honor the flag, serve the Queen and cheerfully obey my teachers, parents and the law"

But that was more king & country sort of stuff.

My most vivid memory of one of these occasions was in Woods Point...
There was a epileptic child who threw fits and he succumbed to one during the patriotic ceremony, much to the fascinated interest of us children. I also remember this child every time I hear the song "Irene Goodnight" as he used to wander around the school and into classrooms where he'd say "I'd like to sing the children a song" and launch into "Irene Goodnight". Actually, I really like the song - it has great lyrics and was apparently written by Lead Belly.

Anyway to mark Australia Day in my own fashion, here are a couple of family photos from the 1930s.

The first is of my Uncle Edgar, my mother's older brother who died during the second world war. This photo is one of several sent to me some years ago by one of Edgar's old girlfriends, a lady called Betty Cox. I've never met her, but she rang me up and asked if I wanted the photos as she was getting on in years and wanted to pass them on to someone in the family before she died. I was only too delighted to take them as I have quite a collection of old family stuff donated through the years by various relatives. I seem to have taken on the mantle of family history keeper. One of these days I will have to pass it on to someone else.

The photo shows Edgar with Betty and another friend, out on the town in Manly (a suburb of Sydney) in 1932. It has a wonderful dated look with the three friends so stylishly dressed for a day out.

The second photo is of my parents (in the foreground) and was taken in 1936. As they weren't married until 1945, it's obvious they knew each other for a very long time before they did tie the knot. My mother in the photo must be 19 years old and my father 26 (he's the one missing a leg). The other people, as is written on the back of the photo, are Girlie (peculiar name), Aunt and Frank whoever they are.

It's a picture of an Australia that no longer exists. Like, I mean, can you imagine the above young people attending The Big Day Out draped in an Australian flag?

10th January 1967

As promised, here is the next entry in my diary of 1967.

"I didn't go to bed early after all & I didn't go walking with a guest either. The afternoon I spent basking in the sun by the pool talking to Tony, Benny and a couple of others.

I went fishing last night with Benny & caught two fish much to my surprise & delight. Benny caught one. Benny's easier to control than Robin & behaves better anyway.

Nerida thinks she's pregnant & has had a miscarriage, because of all these mysterious pains she is suffering. I learnt from her yesterday Joscelyn, just before the exams, was pregnant & had an abortion. My friends... what a crowd! Still, I like them because they are so frank & I'm far from being an angel myself.

My guests (some of them) are pretty beastly. One of my tables is absolutely beautiful - lovely people, polite, undemanding, patient and friendly. The other table are sullen, demanding, uncooperative & complaining. They monopolised all the toast this morning so that the other table scarcely got any at all."

You may well be wondering where all this stuff is happening with guests being mentioned willy nilly.

The place is the Mount Buffalo Chalet , a mountain resort in north eastern Victoria. In those days the Chalet was run by the Victorian Railways and we students could get summer jobs there as waitresses. It was a great place to work being very picturesque and accommodation and meals were included as part of the job.

It was easy work and we got most of the afternoon and the evenings off. As there was nowhere else to go - we were stuck on top of a mountain after all - we amused ourselves as best we could.

The Chalet is a grand old guest house (see photo below). It even had a croquet lawn and was just a step away from a spectacular gorge, where in the early morning the mists used to rise up from the bottom and swirl around in a mysterious way.

As we were part of the staff we fraternised with them and also the with younger guests. Interestingly, at that time most of the guests were Jewish families and most of the kitchen staff were Arabs from Lebanon. So I got to know both sides of these levantine cultures.



While looking for chalet information on Google I discovered, to my dismay, that the Chalet is no longer in operation. I've always intended to one day go there and stay as a guest. Perhaps it will open again one day.

9th January 1967

I mentioned in my initial blog post that I might delve into the diary I used to keep way back when.

To follow is an entry for this day 40 years ago:

"I'm absolutely furious and also a little worried. Last night I went up to Benny's room. He coaxed me into a bit of love making, but unfortunately we were seen from the terrace by Norma who immediately dashed in and spread the word around that I was wrestling with Benny - what a vile turn of phrase to use. So my reputation is shot. I'd better watch my step or they'll have me pregnant in no time at all. I'm going walking this afternoon with one of the guests & I'm going to bed early tonight and all nights"

Tune in tomorrow for what happened next...

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Here we are on Christmas Eve eve. In Melbourne it is a cool night after several days of hot weather, so at least we will be able to sleep tonight.

Anyway, all that is beside the point. I scanned the photo above last night. It is from my childhood and reminds me of Christmas in the place we were living at the time because my brother's Christmas present is depicted in the photo.

We were given odd things as presents. One year we were all given pith helmets. Mine was powder blue, my brothers helmets were a sort of khaki colour. We loved them and wore them everywhere.

The year of the photo above, my younger brother was given an American Indian tepee and headdress. The present came from my mother's twin brother Uncle D. That was exotica to us. I think I was given a scarab bracelet from Egypt that year which no doubt mollified the desire I may have felt to have my little brother's present.

The photo was taken obviously by my older brother (he isn't in the picture) and shows my younger brother (in headdress) sitting in front of his tepee, surrounded by kids from the mining community up the road. The place is Woods Point, a small mining town in North East Victoria. We lived at the hospital where our mother was the local medico. The Morning Star mine was still in operation those days and the miners and their families lived in a small housing sector slightly out of the main township which was called White City owing to the houses all being painted white.

The photo setting is the side of the hospital. It looks alarmingly overgrown, tall grass everywhere. I'm the big blonde kid standing on the right next to the tree. I appear to be wearing winter clothes, though the other kids are less heavily clad.

The photo was taken with some old brownie box camera which produced little tiny photos, so the quality leaves a lot to be desired. However it does capture an afternoon of long ago, an afternoon drenched in summer sunshine.

Woods Point has been much in my mind of late because of the bush fires. We had rain last night, the first decent fall for weeks, so the threat has now lessened, but has not completely gone away.

As I am unlikely to post again before Christmas - I wish the readers of this blog a very happy and safe festive season.