Neville and Dulcie

'The greatest gift my parents gave my brother and I was that they loved each other'. I was being sincere when I spoke these words at Dad's funeral in January 1999. I do not pretend that my parents and that which they taught and modelled were perfect. They were, after all, fallible human beings, products of the time, culture and families in which they were raised. But they gave their boys a home where we were always safe, well fed and clothed, cared for and, above all else, loved. As I look back on my childhood years I realise how fortunate I was, for that which I took for granted back then was and remains far from the reality of many.

 

'Till death do us part', a vow they kept

Mum and Dad weren’t well educated - at least in the formal sense - cultured or sophisticated. Dad left school at the end of primary school for a life on the farm. Mum completed three years of high school, earning the Intermediate Certificate. In those days that gave them all the education they needed, and that should always be the aim of education – to prepare us for life. Education and intelligence are not the same. I have met and worked with people who have achieved far higher levels of education than my parents would ever have dreamed of that lacked the ability to 'make do' and adapt possessed by Mum and Dad. One quality they did lack was the ability to upset others to the degree of some of my more learned friends.

My earliest memory is of the day Dad took delivery of a new grey Ferguson tractor. I still remember the truck being backed up to a small bank, and the tractor being reversed off on planks. Mum was in hospital at the time for this coincided with my brother's birth. But the memory of the tractor is stronger - sorry David, it was obviously the more memorable of the two events.

In those day’s farm life relied on horse power - the type fuelled by grass. It wasn’t transformed over night by the arrival of the tractor. I recall Dad rising early during the cane harvesting season and harnessing the horses to the cart to haul the cane to the derrick where it was loaded onto punts for transport to the sugar mill at Harwood. But change did come and Dad adapted to the changing technology of the times.

Early on sugar cane stalks were cut into pieces about 20 cm long for planting. A planter was drawn by horse over the prepared ground. One man stood behind the planter driving the horses while the other sat on the planter with a long trough on either side filled with plants. As the planter was drawn over the ground it would separate the soil to allow the plants to be laid, and the soil would fill the furrow as the machine passed. Dad adapted this so that it could be pulled by the tractor and raised at each end of the field by the tractor's hydraulics. As farming became more efficient planters became available that enabled the cane stalk to be cut into shorter lengths as it was being fed into the ground. These machines also enabled the plants to be sprayed with pesticide as they were fed through the planter, removing the step of having to dip the plants before they were placed in the planter. Dad liked the idea, so he made his own, largely out of old machinery and material that he had available.

That was Dad. Why buy it if you could make it for less. He bought an arc welder and taught himself to use it. With this he made a hoist to operate from the back of the tractor. No engineering drawings or calculations. Weld it together, and when it bent from the weight of the load, weld on a bit more steel. Dad, like many farmers of his generation, turned their hand to most things. They learned to service and repair their own farm equipment and vehicles, build what they needed, and rely on their own resources.

When Nana and Pop Skinner retired Dad helped them build a house on Yamba Road. When Pa Marsh died Dad decided to build a two bedroom house next to ours because this made it easier for Mum and Dad to care for Nana Marsh. This was built largely from material scavenged from the house she lived in with fibro - yes, asbestos cement sheeting - used for the walls. Fibro was also used for Nana and Pop Skinner's house. When Dad went to the council - it must have been for a certificate of occupancy - he had to tell them how much the house had cost. They wouldn't believe the cost he gave them so he had to lie - and inflate the price.

Mum and Dad met at a dance. For Dad, it was love at first sight. Mum took a little longer to be convinced. They were married in September 1949 in the Chatswood Island Church of England. Mum's cousin Osman Causley was best man and Dad's sister Aileen bridesmaid. They honeymooned at Southport and I came on the scene 12 months later.

They always respected each other. I remember few cross words - there were some - but that is all. Their commitment to each other, to their children and the wider family was rock solid.

 

That cute look on my brothers face - it was a ruse.

Feminism and the struggle for female equality is something I have had some difficulty understanding. Mum and Dad filled what could be seen as largely traditional roles when it came to the division of labour. But during the busy periods on the farm - at planting and harvesting time - gender made no difference. If you were fit and able you pitched in. When it came to work around the house Dad did his share, more so during the slack times that always came with farming. Rarely did Mum do the dishes on her own.

Nothing was 'mine'. It was a partnership in the true sense of the word. Mum cared for the family finances. The idea of separate accounts would have been an anathema to both of them.

Mum was a great cook. When she was around 12 years of age she decided to enter some shortbread in the Maclean show. She came home from school and busied herself with the task without telling anyone. Her endeavours won her first prize much to the disgust of one of her neighbours, a Mrs MacReay, who had always won the category. She accused Mum of cheating, telling everyone it must have been Nana Skinner, or her sister Maud who lived with them, who did the cooking.

As her own mother got to the stage she needed support Mum and Dad took her to live with them. By this time Nana Marsh was also requiring more care and the burden for looking after the two old ladies fell largely on Mum. Loyalty is a value strongly entrenched in Mum and this commitment was taking its toll on her health. One day the doctor told her quite firmly that if she did not put the two mothers in the nursing home she would beat them to the grave. Fortunately she took his advice.

Only the once do I remember Mum and Dad having a holiday without us. It was probably only a week and I stayed with Mum’s parents. Holidays were for the family, and we had many a great one. These were generally in the May school holidays as it was the only time that farm life allowed. Mainly we tented and often didn’t go too far from home – Yamba or the Sandon were both popular though at times we went further afield.

Always proud of her two boys.

Dad died in January 1999 when we were on holidays in New Zealand – right at the end so we didn’t have to fly home early. He is buried in Hervey Bay, at the end of the street where they bought when they moved to the Bay after they retired. David and his family had moved there a couple of years earlier and so, when Mum and Dad sold the farm, they followed.

In 2007 Mum sold up and moved into a retirement village in Cooranbong which is approximately an hour’s drive from where I live. Now Mum is almost ninety, and being the closest to her the responsibility for taking her to doctors, dropping everything when she has been taken to hospital and the like has fallen on me. But I wouldn’t change things if I could, for over these last few years I have spent more time with Mum than I have at any time since leaving home at 16. The chance to talk about family, Palmers Channel, her family and her memories of Dad’s, and just to spend meaningful time with the woman who gave me birth, have been very precious. My only regret is that it was not Mum and Dad.

Thank you Mum and Dad. You may not have been rich in worldly goods, you may not have been highly educated and sophisticated in worldly terms, but you gave your sons something beyond value.

Life's Twists and Turns

Life is full of strange twists and turns. This one started the day I was born. My birth was the talking point of Maclean hospital. But it was not about me, it was about Dr Hammond, the man who brought me safely into the world. I was a caesarean delivery and Dr Hammond pioneered a procedure in Maclean that left Mum with a wound that was significantly smaller and neater than any seen before in the hospital. Every nurse in the place lined up to see first-hand the evidence of this doctor's wonderful work.

Years later I spent a total of five years at RAAF Base Butterworth which is located in what was then called Province Wellesley of Penang State in West Malaysia. In 1996 I moved to Sydney and it was here I met Dr John Hammond, now retired. John is a highly regarded educator within the South Pacific Division of the Seventh-day Adventist Church and, I have no doubt, beyond. John is the nephew of the Dr Hammond that delivered me and the founding principal of what is now the Central Coast Adventist School in which my youngest daughter did her last three years of high school.

In the 1950s John spent part of his childhood in Penang where his father was on staff at the Penang Adventist Hospital. When the RAAF assumed responsibility for the air base at Butterworth John's father was appointed honorary surgeon to the RAAF. John told me recently that the British in Penang at the time were most concerned that these colonials would lower the tone of the place.

In another twist, I married a Kiwi. My wife's sister is married to a Pom. Phil's father was a RAF fireman who spent time on an unaccompanied posting to Butterworth. In the words of the children's song, 'It’s a small world after all'.

The Value of a Medal

Andrew Sharp, my late father-in-law, was an ordinary sort of bloke. He immigrated to New Zealand from Scotland with his family when he was about knee high to a grass hopper. His father, a veteran of both the Boer War and World War 1, worked in pubs around Auckland.

When WW2 broke out Andrew, like many young Kiwis and Aussies, reported for duty. He was shipped out to Egypt leaving his family and fiancée behind. While training in Egypt he was stabbed by a Nazi sympathiser when swimming during a recreation period. The perpetrator was never caught.

Andrew's service medals

 Andrew took part in the Italian campaign as a transport driver. One night this landed him and his mate in the shit. Their camp came under attack and the ammunition dump blew up. They dived into the first trench they came to and, you guessed it, it was the latrine.

After the war he returned to Auckland, married his fiancée Myrla, and fathered two daughters. He worked as a carpenter to provide for his family. Myrla died young while the younger of the two girls was still at school. He later remarried a widow and became father to her son.

Like most of us, he achieved neither fame nor fortune. He was an ordinary bloke who lived an ordinary life. An honest, hardworking bloke who provided for his family and contributed to the community he lived in. A real handy man, in retirement he did what he could to help those around him.

Today we see the end of the 2014 Winter Olympics. While Australia has won a few medals it has missed the valued gold for the first time in a while. Those medals cost the Australian public $10 million, which is considerably less than we paid for the medals won at the Summer Olympics. An Olympic medal, especially gold, or success at the elite level in any sport, can open the door to fame and fortune. Long after they retire successful Olympians and other elite level athletes continue to be feted, looked up to. They have, after all done their nation proud. They did it for Australia - didn't they?

I disagree. An athlete, in whatever sport, Olympic or otherwise, does it for the challenge, the enjoyment, for self. At best, they do it for the team. It may be the pursuit of excellence, but it is not service to the greater community. What do they contribute to other than to the coffers of advertisers and sponsors. Now I admit there are some, such as former Australian cricket captain Steve Waugh, who use their status as champion sports persons to support worthwhile causes. But,  I suspect, they are in the minority.

 

Andrew's 'old army mug', the beret of the
Scottish Regiment, and a reminder of his
Scottish heritage

Until it got too much for him Andrew marched  on ANZAC day with other ordinary blokes, all wearing their service medals. And when he got too old to march he continued to attend ANZAC services in the local RSA - the Kiwi equivalent to our RSL. There was nothing 'special' about his medals - no VC, MC or other award for bravery. Sleeping on top of a truck load of four gallon (20 litre) drums of petrol in a war zone and driving that truck to the front line was nothing outstanding. It was just the sort of thing that ordinary soldiers did.

Andrew saw action at the Battle of Monte Cassino. The last time he visited us in Sydney coincided with an ANZAC Day. A night or two before the day the ABC screened a documentary on the battle. Andrew asked if he could watch it, a request I was happy to agree to. In fact, I looked forward to watching it with him. Sometime into the program Andrew made another request, 'Would you mind turning it off?' Obviously it had triggered painful memories. I didn't pry.

Old athletes bask in the glory of their past achievements. Too many old soldiers live with the wounds, physical and psychological, of their past. It is not only the soldiers, for families often share the cost of their loved one's service.

There are many Andrews - ordinary men and women who have answered their nation's call, who have simply done their duty. There always have been and always will be.

Today's young warriors have seen service in Iraq, Afghanistan, as Peace Keepers, in disaster response and on Border Security, to name a few. And, like those who have come before, too many of them carry the scars of service - visible and invisible. Too many struggle to find the support they should receive because Governments have to manage budgets, and one way they do this is make cuts in the area of veterans’ affairs. Veterans frequently have to jump through hoops to get the benefits and entitlements they were promised. There aren't too many votes in the veteran community, and what  politician wants to be seen to cut funding to elite level sport. Such is the value of a medal.

A Palmers Channel Childhood

Palmers Channel in the 1950s and 60s was probably typical of numerous small rural communities around Australia at the time. Life for me as a child was probably not all that different to that known by my parents with the exception of some advances in technology, communication and travel. I doubt if many communities like it still exist in Australia.

Ready for school

Palmers Channel opened to white settlement in the early 1860s. My great-great grandparents, John and Mary Anne Marsh (nee Parkinson), took up a selection of land on Palmers Channel in 1869. Many of the other families in the district also traced back to this time. The Marsh family was the largest on the Channel and in the 30 or so student one-teacher primary school I attended most kids had a connection to the Marsh's.

My father and grandfather (Pa) were neighbours, separated by Amos's Lane. Jacky Marsh, one of Pa's cousin lived next door to him and Kevy Davis, Nana Marsh's cousin, lived on the other side. Dad's cousin Alvin Marsh owned the property behind ours and Lamby Parkinson, a distant relative, the property next to his. Other Channel farms and also on Palmers Island were owned by Marsh's or relatives of either the Marsh or Davis families.

People stopped and talked to each other. Neighbours usually had time for a chat or, if not there was a friendly wave and a cheery hello. Dad's cousin Alvin Marsh once related this story to me about his grandfather Albert (Bertie) Marsh. Bertie lived at the end of what is now South Bank Road where my grandfather's brother Harold and his wife May lived when I was a kid. Bertie would leave in the morning to go into Maclean. A few of his brothers lived along the way and Bertie liked a chat. So he would drop in to see the first brother, then the next, and the next … The next morning he would head off for Maclean.

There were regular community events that bought us all together. Three that stand out were the annual swimming carnival, Sunday school anniversary and school Christmas tree concert. Almost everyone in the district attended these, whether or not they had children involved.

I remember the district coming together to build the school tennis courts which were used more by the community than the school. Our swimming pool was in a fenced off area of the Channel across the road from the Union Hall and a few hundred metres from the school. The frame was in place all year round. At the beginning of the swimming season the men of the district would hang the fencing from the frame to keep us in the pool and remove it at the end of the season. They built a bus shelter shed on the Yamba - Maclean road from where we would catch the bus to Maclean for high school. And when the bus route changed to come through Middle Road Palmers Island and along South Bank Road Palmers Channel they built another shed next to the swimming pool. If something needed to be done and it was within the resources of the community to do it, it was done.

This was a rural community. Those farmers knew they needed one another to survive. Especially at cane harvest time neighbours would help one another burn cane and transport it to the derrick on the banks of the Channel where it would be loaded onto barges to take it to the sugar mill on Harwood Island. All this contributed to a great sense of community.

In front of the family home with my grandfather Joe Marsh
and brother David

As I have grown older I have realised how fortunate I was as a child. My brother and I did not experience abuse. Sure, there was a some corporal punishment, especially from Mum who was quite skilled at wielding a switch from the peach tree. We usually deserved it and other than leaving a few marks I do not believe it hurt us in any way.

My most treasured memories are of family. We spent time with each other. Not constructed 'quality' time, for time together came naturally. When school didn't get in the way I would accompany my father and grandfather when the milked the cows. After the morning session I would often have breakfast with my grandparents. During the harvesting and planting seasons I helped out. Cane planting in particular could be a whole family affair, with Mum  working with Dad, Pa, my brother David and me.

We grew a lot of our own fruit - peaches, pears, plums, locuts, mulberries and more. There were evenings Mum, Dad, David and I lined up on  the veranda peeling fruit and helping prepare it for bottling. Mum had a set - maybe a number of sets - of Vacola preserving bottles.  A large cupboard was set aside for storing the finished product. At the end of the fruit growing season it would be full and there would be enough to last till next season. How we enjoyed the fruits of our labour.

Dad grew corn. When it was ripe it would be stored in the barn. Then we would spend the evenings with light from a kerosene lamp removing the husks, a task that normally left me itchy. The grain would then be removed from the cob by a hand operated machine and stored in a tank until it was fed to the  chooks.

It was in this community and this family that I grew. I was nurtured, disciplined and protected. Values were taught more by example than words. I fear that the way society has developed over the last 50 or so years the type of community I knew as a child no longer exists for many Australians.  And, in my view, that is a significant loss, one that we need to find ways to recapture for the sake of future generations.

Christmas at Palmers Channel

Christmas at Palmers Channel was always a happy family time. One of my life's regrets is that my children have never had the childhood Christmas experience the I grew up with.

I can’t remember Mum cooking the pudding but she always did. She has often reminded me that her mother boiled the pudding in the copper and she probably did the same - at least for as long as we had one. We still use Nana Skinners recipe today. This was in the pre-decimal currency days and one of the thrills of Christmas day was finding a threepence or sixpence - or if we were really lucky, a shilling - in the pudding. Unless, of course, you swallowed one. I don’t recall that I ever tried to recover a swallowed coin.

The pig was prepared early. Once selected, the unfortunate beast was unceremoniously slaughtered with a bullet through the head from Pa Marsh’s single shot 22 calibre rifle. We used a 44 gallon (200 litre) drum with part of the side opened to boil the carcase over an open fire. In latter years I recall the pig then being sent to the butcher for salting but I think that was all done on the farm earlier on. Nana Marsh’s favorite part of the pig was the trotters.

We had our own chooks on the farm as well and one or more of these would always make the supreme sacrifice for our festivities. I remember the year Mum raised some chickens to sell for Christmas, hoping to raise a little extra. Just before sale time a fox broke into the chicken shed and killed them all.

Each year Pa Marsh would make ginger beer. This was lethal. I don’t know how much he made but some of the bottles would explode before the day. And we didn’t get much a great deal from those that survived. The standard procedure was to point the bottle into a bucket as it was opened to catch the very foamy contents. There was so much froth that eventually if we got a couple of mouth fulls out of a bottle we were lucky.

Money was always scarce. I remember Dad making toys for for Christmas gifts. Dad was quite good with his hands and while some of the gifts were simple - such as the shape of a dog cut out of plywood and fitted with wheels - there were more complex things, such as a model garage with petrol bowsers out the front. I may have been the lucky recipient, but then again memories are vague.

On Christmas eve David and I would go to bed early - before the sun set at times. But we were so excited we hardly slept. I remember being warned - probably by Nana Marsh - that if we saw Santa he would throw pepper in our eyes. But that didn’t mean we couldn't get up every hour or so and see if he had been. We would sneak from our room into the lounge where the tree was placed and we had left our stockings only to be met with a rather abrupt ‘Get back to bed’. Eventually, around six o’clock, Mum and Dad would relent and we could open our stockings before Dad went to milk the cows. The other presents had to wait till later.

Like many families, Christmas dinner (the mid day meal on the farm) was held with Pa and Nana Marsh one year and Pa and Nana Skinner the following, with the evening meal likewise rotated. The years the Lamonds came up from Sydney have a special memory for me. Aunty Aileen was Dad’s only sister and we didn’t see her all that often, whereas we saw quite a lot of Mum’s side of the family - especially the Ryans - throughout the year.

I also felt closer to my Father’s parents, simply because they lived so close and I spent so much time with them. So Christmas on the side veranda of Nana and Pa’s place with Granny Carter and Aunty  Ethel (Nana’s mother and sister), my grandparents, parents and the Lamonds was in deed a special time.


25 Dec 2010

The Black Man

Palmers Channel in the 1950s and 60s was a much different world to the Australia of today. The area had opened to white settlement in 1862. My great-great grandparents, John and Mary Ann (nee Parkinson) Marsh moved to the Channel in 1869 and took up a selection of land. I attended the Palmers Channel public school which had a little over 30 students. It was a single teacher school and most of the students were members in some way of the extended Marsh family.

David and Me with Pa Marsh, 1964. The way we are
dressed indicates we have just got home from Church

In 1885 a Mr John Carter leased approximately 1/5^th of an acre of land to the citizens of Palmers Channel for the purpose of building a Union Church Hall. This was located on the corner of what is now South Bank Road and Amos’s Lane. The aim was ‘… to allow Protestant Christians to hold Divine Service in the Church to be erected on the said land and to allow the said building to be used for all purposes that shall have for their end an aim, the object of advancing Religion, Morality and the General Welfare of Mankind’. The property was leased to the citizens for ninety-nine years at a nominal rental of one shilling per annum. Both John Carter and John Marsh were among the original trustees. John Davis, my grandmother’s grandfather, was another trustee. All of the trustees in the late 50s early 60s were grandsons of the original trustees.

I recall attending one wedding in the hall, although by the 50’s weddings were normally held in Maclean. During both world wars farewells to local boys who enlisted in the services were held here. It was used for social events, community meetings and during my childhood by the Grand United Order of Oddfellows. Grandfather Skinner was a member of this lodge but would have attended meetings on Harwood Island.

David, my brother, and I regularly attended Sunday School in the hall. Jack (John) Carter was the superintendent. There was an annual Sunday School Anniversary concert where children sang songs and recited poems and scripture verses for the parents and other attendees. Prizes were awarded for attendance, learning memory verses and possibly other things as well. Reflecting the Protestant Catholic divide of the time Mum once expressed some surprise at but also appreciation for the attendance of the local school teacher at an anniversary as the teacher was Catholic.

As members of the Church of England (now Anglican) we attended Church here once a month. Other denominations took their turns on the other Sundays in the month. Dad played the organ. I sat with my grandparents on one side of the hall and, for some reason, everyone else sat on the other.

The first minister I remember was, I think, Reverend Kemp. He was followed by the Reverend Gaden who served in the Maclean district for many years. During our monthly service the Reverend would conduct a communion service in the Anglican tradition. While I cannot verify the accuracy of this statement I was told that it was against the rules to throw out the left over wine that had been used for the service. It was always noted that the Reverend Gaden made sure that there was more than enough wine to cater for the parishioners and he fulfilled his pastoral duties by consuming the left overs. One only wonders what would be the situation today if, after conducting a number of communions, the man of God were pulled over for a breath test.

I will always remember the day the minister had brought a guest with him. While I may have seen people of different races before this man is the first non-Caucasian I recall seeing. I have no idea if he were aboriginal, South Sea Islander, Indian, or whatever. All I remember is that he was black – well, at least dark skinned. Unlike every other Sunday, every member of the congregation sat on the same side as my grandparents and me – all, that is, except our visitor. I remember looking at this lone figure on the other side of the hall and being tempted to go and sit with him. But the attraction to my grandparents was stronger. So far as I remember no one spoke to our guest that day.

I often reflect on this and another event that occurred a little later. We had a new cane cutter in the district, and he was Italian. Now this was a real talking point at the time, although I believe there was an Italian connection with the Lower Clarence that went back probably to the late 19^th century. There were also families of German descent in the district and my own great-great grandmother Johanna Davis was German. But all this was not obvious as no one spoke with an accent, which is why the cane cutter stood out.

How different it is today. We rightly recognise the place of Aboriginal Australians in our society. Yes, there were some aboriginal kids in high school but this incident happened in my primary school days. We live in a quite cosmopolitan society. I was always amazed at the variety of ethnic origins represented in the different schools my kids attended. My own kids have a parent born overseas, so unlike me. So far as I have been able to determine all my great grandparents were born in Australia. Two of my grandchildren have Asian and Greek blood while the other has Macedonian ancestry.

Australia in the 1950s, including Palmers Channel, rested in the security of the White Australia Policy. We were insular in our thinking and, yes, racist. Racism is not an Australian, or an English, thing. Most, if not all, races are cursed with this condition. I suspect at its root is fear of the unknown, that which is different. I love to see kids of different backgrounds mingling and playing together in our schools and forming friendships that are based on character and common interest, not religion, skin colour or other culture differences. This gives me hope that we can continue to develop in this country a culture that is both diverse and inclusive, one that encourages peaceful and respectful co-existence. 

The Day I Disappeared

Maclean show, 18 months

My parents often told this story about one of my early experiences. I was about 18 months old at the time, obviously too young to remember it.

One day Dad was working in the car shed. Eventually, his patience ran out in the face of my incessant ‘tar tar, tar tar, tar tar.’ ‘Oh, tar tar’, he exclaimed.

A while later Mum appeared in the shed. ‘Have you seen Kenneth?’ she asked. ‘I thought he was with you’ replied Dad. Then the panic started because, after all, a farm is not the safest place in the world for a straying toddler.  A hurried search commenced.

It probably didn't take long till I was spotted. There I was toddling through the cows heading towards my grandparent's place.

By the time Dad caught up with me I was pulling up a chair for lunch at Nana and Pa’s place, rather hot and red in the face. Now you would think that after all that effort and initiative I would be rewarded with the lunch I looked forward to. But that was not to be.