Palmers Channel Public School

 Palmers Channel Public School was more than a place of education. It was a central part of the local community. It opened in 1913. Dad and his younger sister Aileen were both students. My grandfather, Joe Marsh, turned 12 the year it opened so he may have been among the first group of students. The following story may have been from those very first days.

Palmers Channel School 1935. Dad and his sister Aileen
were students at the time

One day the pupils, including Joe, heard the first car in the district coming down the road. All the boys ran to the window to see it. The teacher, of course, could not tolerate this breach of discipline, so all boys were promptly caned.

My student days began in late 1956 after Mum made an arrangement with the teacher that allowed me to attend for a while prior to my starting 1st class – or grade 1 as we know it today – in 1957. I don’t know how common this was but Neville Carr started at the same time. Neville was a few days younger than me and we ended up exchanging birthday presents throughout our primary school years. Neville died many years back from skin cancer.

The school had two rooms and a veranda. Part of the veranda was enclosed in my third or fourth year to make a library. The two rooms were divided by a fold away petition and the rear room had a stage from where we presented the annual Christmas tree concert.

There were two lunch sheds – one for the boys and the other for the girls. These provided shelter from the weather and were well separated.

Enrolment was probably a little short of 30 with the six classes being under the control of one teacher. Most of the children had some family connection to the Marsh family, it being by far the largest family on the Channel. We sat at desks in neat lines, all facing the front, the teacher and the blackboard. Corporal punishment was in vogue in those days and a call to the front often meant a smack or two across the back of the legs with the teacher’s ruler. Boys were frequently called to the front but I can’t recall girls undergoing the same discipline. There was obviously discrimination against males.

I had three teachers over the six years, each for two years, Misters Folkard, Keating and Lee. Mr Keating was a Catholic, a thing that people noticed in those days and Mum expressed her delighted surprise when he turned up at the annual Sunday School concert. He obviously earned a few brownie points with Mum for that. Mr Lee had been in the air force during the war and Mum has always blamed him for me wanting to join the RAAF, but I suspect it was a steady diet of Biggles books and history articles of the glorious days of the British Empire.

The teacher lived in a house next to the school. His yard was out of bounds. At morning tea and again at lunch time he would disappear into his sanctuary, only to emerge at the end of each break to face the mob. This meant we were unsupervised during breaks. Today teachers are rostered on during recesses and children well supervised. Lack of appropriate supervision has resulted in many costly litigation cases.

There was no playground equipment. We played tag, hide and seek and other games. A couple of the big boys in my early years invented a game that was rather character building for us smaller ones. One would hold us down with our legs apart and the other would direct a medicine ball at our groin.

The school was on a few acres of land with a creek through the middle. The grass on the side the buildings were on was kept well mown, not so on the other side. We played in the creek, creating dams, waterways and other construction projects, unlimited by our imagination. Shoes were unheard of in summer so there was no problem with getting them dirty. Mum insisted I wear shoes in winter, much to my disgust, but I regularly came down with bronchitis so it was probably for the best.

Once I made a periscope, copying the pattern from a magazine. It came in handy, so I thought, playing hide and seek. We hid in the long grass on the other side of the creek but, unknown to me, my new toy was a bit of a give-away.

Back then the Government provided free milk to primary school students. Looking back, this made little sense in a community where every family milked. But policy was policy. The milk was delivered early each morning and placed in the shade of a large camphor laurel tree next to the school gate. In summer particularly this had probably started to go off before we got to it at morning recess. It came in a small bottle, probably around 400 mL with an aluminium foil lid. We had the choice of plain, chocolate or strawberry. While I could handle the strawberry in particular, I though the plain was absolutely revolting. It was nothing like the fresh milk we got from the cow each morning.

The milk was pasteurised, but not homogenised, permeate free, permeate added, skim, low fat, calcium added or anything else. The cream floated on top so you could scoop if off if you wanted fat free – not that anyone worried about stuff like that then – or give it a good shake before opening for the full cream taste.

We did some activities on the veranda. One I remember was basket weaving. Basket cane was soaked in buckets of water to make it flexible enough to form into the basket. On one such occasion I was sitting too close to my friend Neville as he was using a knife to cut the cane to size. It slipped and I still have the scar in my right knee. When I got home Mum was rather upset that I hadn’t been taken to a doctor as she felt it should have been stitched. I don’t however recall her taking me.

These were the days of White Australia, God, Queen and country. One ritual I remember well, while I cannot be certain as to frequency. I would guess weekly. The school lined up in front of the flagpole, which was located in a well-kept garden barricaded with a white fence to keep us out. There, we recited the pledge of allegiance before marching into school: ‘I honour my God, I serve my Queen, I salute the flag,’ or words to that effect.

Two palm trees stood proud, about a meter and a half apart, at the rear of the school – although one always did look a little healthier than the other. These had been planted to commemorate the fallen – I assume WW1. There was a well-worn track between these as we often ran between them playing tag. The district’s honour board, remembering those who had served or fallen in our wars was displayed in the School’s rear room. Out of respect for those men and possibly women I hope that board is still retained in a suitable place.

Community movie nights were held at the school. I remember Dad, who was quite good with his hands, making a cabinet to house the projector and its accessories. It was fitted with castors to enable it to be moved around and double as the projector stand. In my last couple of years they also built community tennis courts on the other side of the creek.

The highlight of the school year was the Christmas Tree concert, again a community event. We sang carols, presented skits, and those who could presented musical items. One year, probably my last, we did a play ‘The Wedding of the Painted Doll.’ This involved all the kids in the school. Our mothers spent weeks, if not months, making costumes. I played the minister. At home somewhere I have a picture of us in our costumes with me standing head and shoulders above the other kids.

The Wedding of the Painted Doll

The school has long since passed. Last time I visited the Channel it had been converted to a house. Can a house stand as a memorial to a bygone era, a way of life that no longer exists? As much as I would like to think so I don’t believe it can. Some of us have memories of those days, but as we pass so will the memories.

There is one transcript I would like to add. Keith McLeay and I started in first class at Palmers Channel in 1957. At the end of 1966 we both left Maclean High, having shared 10 years of schooling. The following year I joined the air force.

Keith, I believe, started an apprenticeship in Newcastle. I remember looking him up once after I got to Williamtown. Keith was called up for two years national service – he must have been one of the last intakes. He stayed with the army, completing over 20 years’ service.

Two boys from a one teacher country school who completed their school years together that gave a combined total of more than 40 years to their country in military service. The older I get the more I wonder how often that has happened.

The Sandon

The Sandon, located at the mouth of the Sandon River, in the Clarence Valley, was a favourite holiday spot for the Marsh family. My grandparents told tales of their holiday adventures at this place, of eating mouldy bread stored in sugar bags, and fishing tales of the one – or more precisely the ones – that got away.

The story is told that one day Dad rode his bike to Brooms Head and then walked the beach to the Sandon to deliver voting papers to his parents who were holidaying there at the time. This in the face of a cyclone and it may have been in the war years. Some years back I walked this same beach from the Broom (as Brooms Head is known) to the Sandon and back before breakfast – a good hour to hour and a half walk.

While we stayed in tents at the Sandon Nana and Pa Marsh had some friends who had holiday shacks there that have now been demolished because they were built on crown land. It is now part of the Yuraygir National Park. One belonged to the Biddles and, if memory is correct, Jim and Mary Orr owned another – Jim Orr being my great grandmother’s brother. There may have been a few more, but there were not many.

In the early days there was no ‘road’ to the Sandon, just a number of sand tracks that wandered over the hills. The trick, it seemed, was to pick the right one. I remember more than one car bogged in the sand with tree branches and other stuff placed under the rear wheels in an effort to get some traction to enable the car to move forward, assisted by a number of bodies pushing from the rear. This may have been the reason Dad took us on holidays one year with Mum, David and myself seated on a trailer packed with all vacation necessities towed by the grey Ferguson tractor. It was more suited to the ‘road’ conditions.

One challenge at the Sandon was timing the arrival. The camp ground was on a knoll separated from the mainland by sand spits, and as the tide came in these became impassable until the tide receded. This was not always a problem. I remember once we went to the Sandon for the day with Dad’s sister Aileen, husband Stan and kids. We had a great time swimming in the river waiting for the tide to fall.

The camp ground was basic. No electricity. We may have been able to buy ice from the local fisherman’s cooperative shack, but possibly not. No showers and the dunny (toilet) was of the pit variety – supply your own newspaper. There was a communal rain water tank and, of course, one could always raid the water tanks attached to the few houses. Powdered milk was the norm and other stuff we needed to keep cool – and possibly out of reach of creatures is search of a meal - was placed in a food safe hung from a tree.

Not that we needed to keep much fresh. Like most of our holidays, the Sandon was about the beach, swimming and fishing. We had a small, flat bottomed row boat. Mum and David always sat on the seat at the back, Dad did the rowing and I perched on the seat at the front. Fish – bream, whiting, and flathead – were plentiful so we never went hungry.

While we fished in the safety of the river, others fished off the rocks on Plover Island. Plover Island was at the mouth of the river, accessible across the sand spit when the tide was out far enough. We used to roam over the island – not that it was all that large – and play on the rocks. My grandfather, Joe and his brother Kelvin would fish from here sometimes – I remember talk of Jew Fish and Snapper, so I assume these were what they caught.

Kelvin married Connie Orr, daughter of Jim and Mary whom I have mentioned above. They must have stayed in the house when they holidayed there.

One day Joe and Kelvin were fishing from the rocks. So far as I recall, the only thing they caught all day were snags. I have always remembered their discussion that day. Both agreed that the ideal way to go would be standing on the rocks reeling in a catch. One was adamant that he wanted to see the fish before he breathed his last, the other would be satisfied knowing he had something on the line. Sadly, neither got their wish.

A small ocean going fishing fleet operated from the Sandon. Some of the fishermen lived in houses on the side of the road just before the sand spits we had to cross to get to the campground. Others lived on the other side of the river. Access to these houses was from Minnie Water along the beach. One day I recall a trawler in serious trouble crossing the bar, but I can’t recall the final outcome of that episode. All I remember is the trawler rolling about, immobilised, with waves washing over it.

Another memory is of fishermen walking into the surf, pulling their nets out and circling back into the beach with their catch, mullet I think. I clearly remember this one day the waves were full of mullet for as far as the eyes could see. It seemed there were more fish than water. Only once have I seen this but I guarantee the like has not been seen for years.

 It is a few years since I last visited the Sandon. As I said above, it is now part of the Yuraygir National Park. The campground remains, but it is still fairly basic. There is still no electricity if I remember correctly. The fishermen’s houses remain, silt has changed the course of the river, and you can access the campground anytime day or night. But it retains in some ways the simplicity of former years.

More than a Meaningless Ritual?

I grew up in a simpler place and time. We did not need Facebook, Twitter, Messaging or the Internet to connect – we had family and a broader community where people had time for one another, to stop and talk and listen. When we did get the telephone it was closely monitored to make sure it was not used unnecessarily. Phone calls were a cost that had to be controlled.

Dad was a farmer whose formal education ended when he left primary school. Mum did three years high school. Our connection to the outside world was through the Newspaper – the Grafton Daily Examiner which had a few stories of world, national and state importance but was primarily a local paper – the radio and eventually television. So we were largely unconcerned with what happened outside our small community.

We went to Church, as did most of our neighbours, when it was our turn. The Palmers Channel public hall had been built to cater for the Protestants in the area, with a different denomination attending on each Sunday of the month. Faithful Catholics were forced to travel to Maclean or Yamba.

God was a given. There was no debate about whether or not He existed. People – or at least most people – married young, no one lived together before they got married, and there was probably nothing on the planet much lower than an unmarried pregnant woman. And if you were Protestant, more likely than not you voted for what was then the Country (now National) Party and Catholics voted Labor.

We always ate together as a family and, before a knife or fork was lifted we would say grace. I can still remember Dad: ‘For these and all other mercies may the Lord make us truly thankful, Amen’. I can’t recall ever pausing to reflect on what those words might mean and I wonder if anyone else ever did. It was just part of the family ritual.

As I moved out into the big bad world I came in contact with people who didn’t go to Church and when I was invited into their homes they didn’t say grace. Mind you, by this time I had largely given up on Church attendance, but I always felt uncomfortable when grace wasn’t said for no other reason than it was a signal to start eating. It is a discomfort that remains to this day.

As I returned to faith so I returned to saying grace. The words may have changed: ‘Thank you Lord for this good food, bless it to our needs, Amen’. Or perhaps; ‘Thank you Lord for this good food and the hands that have prepared it. May it make us strong that we can serve you, Amen.’ But I wonder if anyone gives those words any more thought than I did as a kid.

It dawned on me one day that for me it was nothing other than a meaningless ritual. Simply rattled off without any thought so that I could get my knife and fork into that appetising – or perhaps not so appetising - plate in front of me. Actually, I tell a little lie. There have been times when I have wondered about asking God to bless us and give us health to serve Him when I know that most, if not all, of what has been prepared fails every good nutrition test known to human kind – but that is another story.

As I thought about it I realised what it really meant to give thanks. Of course there is the sun and the rain, the soil and the seed, and the miracle of life. But it’s much more, especially for those who live far removed from the site of production.

The farmer is a given, but what about the agricultural scientist, the truck driver that takes the produce from the farm gate to market. Then we can add on the process worker in the canning factory, the electricity worker that supplies the energy for food production, the miner, warehouse workers, those that pack the shelves in the supermarket and the check-out chick. If it were not for these and a myriad of others I could not do the things I do and live the lifestyle I have chosen.

I am part of a community and I depend on the community for life. We are interdependent and the quality of life we enjoy is dependent on others. So when I give thanks for the meal in front of me, regardless of how simple it may be, I am not only giving thanks to God, the life-giver, but for the community He has placed me in. And that acknowledgement that I am dependent upon others should create in me a sense of reciprocity – that of giving back to my community. For the health of the community is dependent upon the willingness of all to give and a recognition that we should take nothing for granted.