The Coming of the Box

I can’t remember how old I was when we had the electricity connected, but I can certainly remember life before it. We had electricity before Nana and Pa Marsh, but they had the phone before us. The first phone we had in our house was an extension of their line. Palmers Channel 37. Eventually we had our own line, Palmers Channel 44. Not that David or I were allowed to use it. In those days the phone was a luxury, only used when necessary. There was none of this in the door and straight to the phone stuff after school.

Our main source of light at night came from a kerosene pressure lantern, commonly known as a Tilley Lamp. As evening fell Dad would fill the lamp, check the wick, and pump up the pressure of the kerosene and light the lamp. From time to time the pressure would need a boost to keep the light burning. We also had a few kerosene lanterns that were nowhere near as effective.

I remember a kerosene refrigerator. It had a small freezer compartment - probably very small - that seemed to spend a lot of time frozen over. There was also a meat safe that hung under the persimmon tree at the side of the house. The tree itself was a bit of a draw card for flying foxes, but that was in the days before they were a protected species.

The electricity didn't bring instant change. Mum stilled used the wood stove for many years. As David and I grew one of our regular chores was to cut the wood and carry it to the wood box. This, especially the task of cutting, didn't seem a chore. It carried with it the feeling of growing up, something to feel good about.

Once, when I was quite young, I was playing on the wood pile in bare feet - bare feet being normal in those days. Among the wood supply was an old fence post that had a piece of barbed wire attached. I can't remember the screams, but I can still see that wire stuck in one of my toes and remember the trip to the doctor to have it removed. Another time I broke my arm in a fall on the wood pile.

It goes without saying there was no hot running water. When it came to bath time Mum boiled a kettle of water on the stove and poured this into the bath tub. Cold water was then added to cool the bath to a suitable temperature. It was barely enough to cover the bottom of the tub. It was similar with the dishes. We had an aluminium dish that was used only for the dishes and perhaps food preparation. It was placed on the bench, the kettle boiled, poured into the dish and cooled. Once washed the cutlery, dishes and other stuff was placed on an enamel tray next to the dish. Of necessity this was team work, with all capable hands on deck. I remember once placing a spoon in my mouth, pulling it out and showing it to Mum and Dad. ‘Look’ I said proudly, feeling good about my inventiveness. ‘This doesn't need washing, I've cleaned it.’

Our bath was similar to the one in this picture, only whiter. We did have a potty

under the bed  for night use, and other utensils were common at that time. Those

 in this shot probably go back to the late 19th century

Change came slowly. Sunday evenings Mum would fill the copper and light the fire so it would be ready to do the laundry next morning - the copper was also used to boil the Christmas pudding. Mum always put a blue block in the copper that was supposed to help whiten the sheets and other whites. All sheets and pillowcases were white in those days. After the washing had been boiled clean it was transferred to the large concrete laundry tub - which was divided into two sections. Here the excess water drained off before the laundry was transferred from one tub to the other, passing through the hand operated wringer on the way. The second tub was filled with water remove the excess soap and then the washing was transferred again through the wringer to the first tub. This process was repeated until it was judged that the soap suds had been removed. It was only then that the washing was hung out to dry.

In those days things like sheets, pillowcases, white shirts and petticoats were starched and ironed before the laundering was considered finished. Now I can’t be sure of the process, but I am certain that Mum put a starch mixture in a large dish to starch the necessary items and this must have been before they were hung out to dry.

Mum had an ironing set - two or three irons with a shared handle. The irons were placed on the stovetop to heat. Once heated, the handle would be attached to one and the ironing would start. As the iron cooled it would be placed back on the stove and another would take its place.

Our first washing machine was a Hoover twin tub - one tub for washing and the other for spin drying. It was quite small by today's standards. Funnily,  when I was first married we rented a furnished house in Richmond. It had an outside laundry with a similar concrete tub to the one we had on the farm. The supplied washing machine was a larger single tub fitted with a hand wringer. This was late 1974.

We played 78 rpm records on a gramophone, trying as hard as possible not to drop the needle onto the record thus scratching it.

Before the advent of television our main contact with the outside world was the wireless. I remember both sets of grandparents had rather large, battery powered wireless sets after they had the electricity connected. I remember one day Pa Marsh won an electric radio in a competition and this was probably the first electric one he owned. He may well have still had it when he died. I can’t remember if our first wireless was powered by electricity or battery.

This was the day of radio serials and comedies. I don’t think we missed out on anything. I read or heard someone some years back say the radio was a better medium than television as the listener was forced to imagine the scene being played out. Being forced to imagine resulted in greater creativity.

Mum hardly missed an episode of Blue Hills, Australia’s longest running radio play. We  listed to The Muddle-headed Wombat, Dad and Dave, the Goons, the Lone Ranger, and many I have no doubt forgotten. The ABC (and we only had the one ABC and one Commercial station) had a children’s program Jason and the Argonauts. All kids could join up as Argonauts, but I can’t remember if I did or not.

Television came to Australia in 1956, with the Olympic Games of that year being used as a test transmission by all three Melbourne stations. Brisbane began transmission in 1959, but it was not till 1964 that RTN 8 began broadcasting from Lismore. It was probably a little later that the ABC also began broadcasting from Lismore.

I still remember the first time I saw TV. Granny Carter’s brother Jim Orr and his wife Mary lived on Middle Road, Palmers Island. Their daughter Connie and husband Kelvin (Pa Marsh’s youngest brother) lived next door. One of them bought a box and we were invited to a screening. My first recollection is of a TV aireal on top of a long pole about 200 feet high (okay, I was still a kid). The picture was transmitted from Brisbane. It was black and white, and very poor. It appeared everything was taking place in a snowstorm and there was some sort of screen placed in front of the set that was meant to improve the picture. I doubt if it did, but there we sat enthralled.

We must have bought a set not long after television came to Lismore. I was to leave home a little over 2 ½ years later. Transmission probably began at 5 pm and finished around  11. It began with a prologue and ended with epilogue - from memory a message from one of the local clergy - and most likely a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’. For the rest of the time the station played a test pattern.

I well remember Uncle Dick. Dick hosted the children's’ program, read the news and presented the weather. It was the latter that I best remember him for. He used something like a peg board to help with the weather presentation with one section sliding over the other when needed for the next bit of information. On this particular night it fell apart as he tried to move it. Another evening he became tongue tied, telling us the next day we could expect ‘shattered scours.’ But why would we have believed him anyway? After all, it was only in black and white.

An Unwanted Invitation

‘Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.’ That was not expected and it was most unwelcome. The last thing I wanted was a few nights as a guest of the Government of Papua New Guinea.

It was 1997 and the trip had started well. I got a free upgrade to Business Class for the flight from Sydney to Cairns. Now I can’t compare the Business Class service back then to what happens today, but the meal was served with a linen napkin, real plates and cutlery. There were few security concerns in those days.

Sopas Hospital

Sunday afternoon in Cairns was most enjoyable. I spent some hours walking around and one day I might find some of the photos I took. I had not realised till then that Catalinas had operated out of Cairns in WW 2. Dad’s cousin by marriage, Don Day, had been a Catalina pilot so may have spent time in Cairns.

Monday morning and I was scheduled to catch an Air New Guinea, or ‘Air Arse-Grass’ as I believe it is called - to Mount Hagen at eight in the morning. At Mount Hagen I was to meet a staff member of Sopas Adventist Hospital who would take me to my planned destination about 20 minutes out of Wabag, the capital of Enga Province.

Now everyone knows you have to be at the airport two hours before the departure of an international flight, so I turned up at six. An hour later signs of life began to emerge.

By 8 a.m. we were all seated, ready to depart, but there was a delay. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  will you please leave your bags on the plane and return to the Departure Lounge’ came the message. ‘We have a technical problem’. So we did.

Some time later: ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  please return to the aircraft, collect your belongings, and return to the terminal. We have a fuel pump problem.’ Time passed.

Finally the announcement came. ‘Passengers for Mount Hagen on flight number whatever, your flight is now ready to leave. Will you please proceed to the aircraft.’ Then, as we were leaving the terminal we heard the announcement: ‘This is to advise passengers on Air New Guinea flight whatever, due to depart at 10 a.m., your flight has been delayed.’

Where I slept

So I arrived at Mount Hagen two or more hours late, only to face another delay. I had a special visa that was available to Church employees owing to the fact that we did a lot of travel to PNG. It was managed electronically. ‘We are sorry Mr. Marsh. We can only process your visa when we have a landline connection to Port Moresby. Because you are late you will have to wait for the next flight to arrive - in about 2 hours time.

So there was nothing to do but relax and enjoy the comforts of the Mount Hagen International Terminal. It was nothing more than a shed with a tin roof. No air conditioning, food, or other services one  normally expects at an airport. As for customs and immigration control? Anyone could walk through the terminal at anytime and talk to whoever they wanted to.

My hosts had already been waiting for some time pick me up. Now we had the opportunity to get to know each other a while longer before we started on the trip to Sopas. Eventually the next flight arrived, the connection was made, my visa processed, and we were on our way.

It was a trip to remember. The vehicle was a Toyota Land Cruiser, a multi-purpose vehicle that served as ambulance, goods carrier, or taxi. On the return trip I really felt for a couple of passengers lying on  stretchers in the back. I can't remember any mattresses, only the stretcher placed directly on the metal tray.

The road was little more than a pot-holed, corrugated gravel track. The truck rattled and every irregularity in the road was felt. I remember the only thing that attached the glove box lid to the vehicle was the latch at the top. The bottom was free to flap in the breeze.

Hospital

Then, of course, there was the unexpressed - and, I hope, well hidden - anxiety that armed rascals may have prepared a welcome around the next corner. It was a relief to finally arrive without incident. The hospital was forced to close a couple of years later because of the danger to staff and patients from rascals and tribal rivalries.

My first night I was thankful I had followed the advice of my hosts. I had spent six weeks in PNG with the RAAF in 1975, including an hour or so on the ground in Mount Hagen. It was hot and humid all the time. So when I was told to take a change of warm clothes my first reaction was ‘Why?’ No way, I thought, what a waste of space. It was only a last minute, spur of the moment decision to throw in a jumper. The couple of nights I slept at Sopas I needed blankets.

Fortunately,  I escaped without any rascal experience.  Despite the fact I was there to work it was a relaxing experience. At 1,830 M or 6000 feet above sea level the climate was comfortable. There were no mosquitoes, which are a concern in much of the country. Without television and an early enforced lights out owing to the fact that the facility relied on generators for its power supply, relaxation was virtually mandated.

The trip also gave me a real appreciation of how fortunate I am to live in Australia. I cannot imagine how we would feel in Australia if the Sopas ambulance arrived at our door in response to our emergency call. Well equipped is not the word to describe it. Even spartan appears a little too luxurious.

Conditions at the hospital were little better. It was clean, but medical equipment and supplies were quite basic. A well stocked first aid room in an Australian factory would probably be better off.  But it provided a much needed service in the Wabag Province.

After leaving Sopas I flew from Mount Hagen to Port Moresby as I had a few days scheduled at Pacific Adventist University, located just out of Moresby. Another delightful Air Arse Grass flight in a seat with a backrest that would not stay upright.

Then it was time to return to Sydney. I duly presented my passport to immigration. Then, “Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.” Instantly I had visions of rats, fleas, a concrete floor and a bucket in the corner for a toilet. Perhaps my vision of the type of accommodation I imagined could be offered to me by by new hosts was a little unkind, but I think not.

Some fast talking, explaining that I had entered at Mount Hagen, and I was on my way home. Perhaps the Immigration Official had had previous experience with the landline from Mount Hagen, or maybe he was a very nice man who believed my story and gave me the benefit of the doubt.

Life of Service

Some years back we were returning from a week long Church camp at Stuarts Point when I pulled into a service station to refuel. As I returned to the car after paying this sleek, black Ferrari convertible pulled into the next bay. Out jumped the driver without opening the door,  black hair all nicely greased back, which set the tone for my first impression of the young man - sleazy young ...

My daughter piped up ‘That’s a nice car Dad’.

Yeah, I thought, looking at my old bomb, a 1994 Holden Berlina with over 300,000 kilometers on the clock. Talk about a looser. How do I make myself look good in this situation?

‘I’ll have you know’, I blurted out, ‘I spent the first 20 years of my working life in the air force.' ‘The air force was not about making money; it was about service to the nation. I have spent the rest of my life working for the Church. The Church is not about making money, it is about service. I feel good that my life has been one of service rather than serving the corporate interest.’

Receiving Defence Force Service Medal for 15 years service

And as soon as I said it I felt good about myself. ‘How did I come out with that?’ I thought. Not that I have anything against companies and other organisations that exist to make money, so long as it is done ethically. These can also provide much needed goods and services to the community.

The best thing about this little encounter came a few months later when my daughter said to me: ‘Dad, when I finish school I want to do something that serves others’.  At the end of last year she graduated with a Primary Teaching degree and is now looking for work. When we work for organisations, whether they are profit making or not-for-profit, to the extent that they provide valuable goods and services to the community we all serve. Yet in my mind, there remains something different, something good, about those organisations that exist primarily to serve, not to profit. And there are those who work for them - teachers, nurses, firefighters, police, to name a few. Not to mention, of course, the many volunteers who give freely of their time delivering meals on wheels, working for the SES, raising money for worthy causes and more.

As Australians we hear these words each ANZAC day - words that are written on many memorials across the country.

‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ (John 15:13)

On ANZAC day we commemorate service and sacrifice on behalf of others. That same spirit shown by the ANZACs is shared by those who volunteer their time for others, and by those who accept less than they might otherwise earn to work in service-related fields.

Sometimes I wonder what difference it would make to our country and the world if we all lived with an attitude of service.

Underpants, or Lack Thereof

Palmers Channel Public School was divided into two rooms that could be opened to form one if required. All instruction was carried out in the one room. The other was used rarely, although it did house the stage from which the students presented the annual school concert.

One particular day it had a different use. We had a visit from a medical person who had come to check out the students. All the boys were lined up on the stage stripped to the waist waiting our turn. The girls were in the other room undergoing instruction.If the girls had turned around they could see what was happening on the stage as the divider was windowed.

‘Are you wearing underpants?’ the doctor asked the first boy. ‘No,’ he answered. So the boy kept his shorts on for the examination. Next boy, same question. Again, the answer was “No’. And so it continued until it was my turn. I approached the doctor nervously, waiting for the question, but this time it didn't come.

I found out later the kid in front of me, when his turn came, answered ‘no’ when asked, although he was wearing underpants. So by the time the doctor got to me he probably figured that asking was pointless. This was good for me, as I was not looking forward to answering honestly and it had not occurred to me to do anything else.

There is another part to this story. Recently I recounted the experience at a family picnic in Mum’s presence. She recalled the time she was seated next to a friend, Mary, at a school function. The kids, or at least the boys, were seated facing the parents. Mary's son had a little more on display than she cared to see but she noticed I was covered. ‘What's Kenneth wearing?’ Mary asked Mum. ‘Underpants’, replied Mum. ‘Oh’, said Mary.  ‘Where do you buy those?’