Guest Post

Andy, David (Ping) and Gordon at the Farewell Dance in 1963

Armidale: The Gang of Four

This is a guest post by Gordon Forth, a fellow student at Armidale Teachers College, who started there in 1962, a year after me. Gordon writes: Please find attached my somewhat scurrilous account of my time at ATC. I really had a lovely time at College, but was immature, a rather lazy student, who just managed to graduate. It may give some of my fellow students a chuckle.

Though I didn’t learn much, the two years I spent in Armidale was the most influential time of my adolescence. I guess the move to this country location at seventeen was my first tentative step to explore the wider world. To an extent, it involved breaking ties with my family and friends and starting a new life. Choices opening up before me had a great deal to do with the fact that I’d be living in a student residence.

The northern regional city of Armidale with its churches, the University of New England, Armidale Teachers’ College and several private schools, promoted itself in my mind as the Athens of the North. Moving there at seventeen marked a turning point in my life. Though tame by today’s standards, my decision to go to college there seemed quite adventurous at the time.

After spending two years in Armidale and three teaching in a remote part of the Snowy Mountains, I spent the next seven years in Sydney. In 1975, my then wife Penny and I moved to Warrnambool in South West Victoria. Over the next thirty years, I taught and undertook research in Ireland, China and the United States. Since my retirement in 2001, Penny and I have undertaken regular overseas trips. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

In March 1963, I caught the overnight train from Hornsby to Armidale. My family, friends and, in tears, my girlfriend Vanessa, lined up on Hornsby station to see me off. On the train I met Paul Coghlan and Andy Miller, also commencing the primary teaching course at Armidale. Paul and I were to remain lifelong friends, while Andy was best man at my first wedding. Another dozen or so Sydney boys and girls on that train were also starting the teacher education course at Armidale. By the time the train arrived at Armidale the next morning, I was confident Paul, Andy and I would be friends. The three of us shared a taxi to Newling House, the men’s student residence. At the entrance we were met by second year students, who carried our suitcases to our rooms. My roommate Dick Clark hailed from the northern New England town of Glen Innes. Tall and well-built, Dick was a star swimmer. We got on as roommates but were never friends.

Another first year student, Dave Martin had been allocated the room next to mine. Tall, dark and good looking, Dave was from the north coast town of Murwillumbah, where his stepfather Stan owned a banana plantation. Supremely self-confident and personable, David was attractive to women and knew it. After Introducing himself, he enquired if I was any good at wrestling. I replied I most assuredly was. Smiling, he challenged me to do battle with him on the grass outside our rooms. Having boasted of my prowess, I could hardly refuse. After a preliminary skirmish, I applied my tried-and-trusted headlock, confident of bulldogging this cocky country bumpkin to the ground. However, Dave, who was extremely strong, bent low and used his hips to throw me over his head…twice!! Eventually, I learnt to lock one leg behind his knee to make this unsportsmanlike tactic less effective. It was an unusual way to begin what became a close friendship.

Most Armidale Teachers College students were from coastal northern NSW and knew each other through inter-school sporting events. There were established cliques, most notably one consisting of former students from Woodlawn, a Catholic boarding school in Lismore. The majority of students had completed the Leaving Certificate at coeducational country high schools. Quite a few hoped to return to teach and settle in their home towns. For these students, it was this prospect as well as being awarded a teachers’ college scholarship that led to their decision to choose teaching as a career.

Students from Sydney were outsiders and tended to group together. We met up on the train travelling to and from Armidale. During the holidays several of us met at Sydney’s Tatts Hotel. One of these was Denis Field the youngest son of a working class Catholic family from the inner western suburb of Enfield. Socially inept, and something of an innocent, Denis was a good natured, likeable character. His two older brothers, Maurice and Lionel, were both high school teachers. Denis’s father was known as “Joe the Header” due to his love of Two Up. As an older teacher, Denis featured in the Sydney press, having regularly sued the NSW Education Department. Working with his solicitor, he sought compensation after being hit by a cricket ball while supervising school sport and later falling down on a school bus. After his wife Kathryn died, Denis posted photos of himself on Facebook with busty young women at the Sydney Crown Casino. Within weeks, Paul, Andy, Dave and I were a close knit “Gang of Four”. Clomping around in riding boots, I was now known as “Hoss” or “Horse”. A flashy table tennis player, Dave was “Ping Pong” or just “Ping”. Andy, with his thin bony face, was less than ecstatic at being referred to as “Skull”. Paul was “Cog”, though after a public performance, his own wild version of the American dance The Hucklebuck, he became “The Rocking Ostrich”.

A cynical hedonist, Ping rejected the conformist attitudes of most college students. Perpetually restless and randy, Ping didn’t appear to take himself or anyone seriously, including our primary teaching course lecturers. Night after night, he went out on the prowl, with mischief, drinking and sex on his mind. Ping convinced Paul, Andy and me that we didn’t need to join the plodders slaving away at their assignments after tea. Rather, he persuaded us to join him on his nocturnal rambles. On one regrettable occasion, this involved frightening old ladies walking through a local park. After one such adventure, Ping returned home in the small hours, knowing a major assignment was due the next day. He set his alarm clock for 5am in order to finish the assignment. However, when the alarm went off, Ping — suffering from a lack of sleep and a hangover — smashed the offending clock against the wall. Rather than turn up for breakfast in the dining hall, Dave preferred to start the day sitting up in bed, smoking and munching Maltesers. Too lazy to be bothered washing his clothes, he simply gave them a jolly good dusting with Johnson’s Baby Powder.

One Saturday afternoon, after turning out for a College rugby team, I showered and pressed my best shirt, trousers and sports coat before setting off for the pub. I laid my clothes out on my bed, intending to change into them for the dance that evening. Alas, when I returned from discussing philosophy in the pub, my clothing had vanished. I managed to borrow a sports coat and an ill-fitting pair of strides, and just made the 9pm deadline for admittance to the dance. There, amongst the waltzing throng was a smirking Ping ,looking resplendent in my clothes lining up yet another conquest. When I remonstrated with him about his evil deed, he merely laughed and said I should be grateful that he deemed to wear my crappy clothes.

Ping was careless about money, his own and other people’s which he had no hesitation in borrowing. His strategies for raising extra cash included auctioning his clothes and hustling in pubs. His chosen venue was Armidale’s down-market Club Hotel, which boasted a table tennis table in the main bar. With a half smoked cigarette and a glass of beer on the table, Ping and I played a set with several patrons looking on. As the straight guy, my role was to defeat him with ease. A seemingly drunk Ping then challenged any one of the onlookers to play him for a couple of quid. Once his challenge was accepted, he instantly sobered up and proceeded to demolish his opponent.

Another time, Ping placed money on the bar, then challenged anyone present to a “best of three” arm wrestling contest. Though lightly built, he had extremely strong forearms and won easily. On one occasion he defeated a surprised older opponent. It was obvious that the man’s tough-looking mates were intent on exacting retribution on this youthful conman and his accomplice (me). We fled the scene and thought it best to give the Club a miss in future. Ping was aware that his “opportunistic” ways were not always appreciated by his friends. In order to find out what they really thought of him, he hid amongst the college hockey equipment stored in the top of his wardrobe. My role was to gather his friends to his room and encourage them to air their grievances regarding his character flaws. They all, including his roommate Andy Miller, enthusiastically embraced this opportunity. To a man, they agreed that Ping was a dirty rotten scoundrel. This was too much for Ping, who jumped down from his hiding place and started semi-playfully strangling a shocked Skull. In fairness, Ping was loyal to his friends when it really counted. When an eighteen plus stone Goliath “Bill Constable” threatened Andy, Ping unhesitatingly confronted the Bull from Bellingen. Twice he managed to throw Bill over his shoulder onto the floor, smashing a bed in the process. However, on his third attempt, Ping slipped and ended up with an enraged Constable choking him. I grabbed a hockey stick and threatened to rearrange Bill’s bovine head if he didn’t release his choke hold. He did.

Though clever, Ping went out of his way to ensure that he failed. He was at least partly responsible for Paul and Andy having to repeat second year at their own expense. I’ve no doubt that, had they not been under Ping’s influence, both would have passed. Paul and Andy really wanted to graduate, while Ping didn’t care. At the start of one annual exam, Ping filled in the cover sheet, stood up and walked out smiling.

After leaving College, I caught up with Ping in the mid-sixties, when I was teaching at a rural school in the Snowy Mountains. I was playing rugby for Cooma, which meant travelling to Canberra every second weekend. At that time, Ping was employed at the Commonwealth Department of Statistics in Canberra. I was best man at his wedding, when Ping, recently voted “Mr. Statistics”, married Barbara, “Miss Statistics”. She was conventionally attractive, but boring and vain. Understandably, Barbara didn’t appreciate Ping and I mocking her. Their hasty marriage only lasted a few months. Over the next few years, I met several of Ping’s girlfriends. I remember one telling me that she knew the relationship with David wouldn’t last, but was happy to make the most of it while it did.

In the early 1970s, after I had moved in with Penny at Rose Bay, Ping turned up driving a new Datsun 240z sports car. It turned out he had won quite a large sum in the lottery. That evening, while having a beer with him at a Kings Cross pub, he pointed out two attractive mini-skirted women sitting across the room. He explained that he had paid for them to have a twosome with me. I thanked him, but politely declined. After I moved to Warrnambool, I lost contact with Ping, but often wondered what had happened to this personable, flawed human being.

Like Ping, I did the minimum amount of work at College, preferring to spend my time playing billiards, table tennis at the pub and courting. Apart from Paul, I lost track of my college friends after we moved to Warrnambool in January 1975. I was surprised and a little hurt that Andy didn’t invite Paul, Ping or me to his wedding. Doubtless, he was concerned, and with good reason, that one of us, probably Ping, would get drunk and start calling out “Skull” or something worse at the reception. Andy had been an easy target for Ping’s cruel mockery. In our post college careers, Paul and I had much in common, having completed postgraduate degrees and moved onto secondary and tertiary teaching.

When Penny and I are in Sydney, we generally meet with Paul and his wife Nola for a meal and reminisce about our Armidale days.

Author’s Note: Born July 1944, Gordon attended Beecroft Primary, St Andrews Cathedral Choir School and Epping Boys High. Having graduated from Armidale Teachers College, Gordon was a primary then secondary teacher, before taking up academic appointments at UNSW and then Deakin University. Gordon holds a B.A and M.Litt (UNE), M.Ed UNSW, and a Ph. D (Monash). He has been a visiting scholar at Trinity College, Dublin, Nanjing and Kansas State universities. Since retirement, Gordon has worked as a consultant, and authored a number of commissioned histories. He and wife Penny, with their two whippet dogs, live in Warrnambool.

Photo: Andy, David (Bing) and Gordon with an unnamed female student at the Farewell Dance in 1963. The 4th member of the gang, Paul Coghlan, is not in the photo.

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February 18, 2022 0 comment

Guest Post

Memories of a Country Education

by Ian Harry Wells (Wellsy)

Armidale is a city of learning, being home to the first NSW Teachers’ College established outside of Sydney. The Armidale Teachers’ College is a heritage-listed (now former) tertiary college at 122–132 Mossman Street, Armidale. It was designed by the New South Wales Government Architect, Mr Tolhurst, and after the demolition of the Armidale Gaol. The foundation stone was laid by local member, D. H. Drummond, and the magnificent building was constructed from 1928 to 1931 by the NSW Public Works Department. It is an impressive building surrounded by formal gardens, high on a hill overlooking the city of Armidale. The College was built to train school teachers for country service, and played an important part in the establishment of the University of New England, which was the first public university to be established outside of the capital cities. The town also boasts two major cathedrals facing Armidale Central Park. ATC students came from all over the state and resided in various Armidale accommodation venues, mainly Smith House for the female students and Newling House for the male students.

1961 was a massive year in my life. It was the year I left home to experience the world under my own steam, the year I left the “big smoke” and went to “the country” to begin a new stage of life. It was the year for my childhood to end, with adulthood beckoning, or so I thought. It was the first year of a two year course of teacher training, the year I entered into higher education, and the year I discovered girls… College was co-ed, a big change for me, after nine years in all boys’ schools, with a chance to share lectures with the opposite sex.

The men’s dormitory for college students was the residence called C.B. Newling House; it was about a kilometre from the impressive looking college building where we had lectures each day. As we had to return to the residence for lunch, we had a compulsory four kilometre walk daily. This wasn’t so much fun in winter with black frost, and sometimes even snow, around well into the afternoon hours. I was placed in a room in Mr Ross’s block when I arrived. He was a psychology lecturer at Armidale Teachers’ College, who had a sympathetic ear for students and who was head “warden” of Newling House, named for Cecil Bede Newling, founding principal of the College.

Bob Ross was a handsome, well-groomed and very personable man. He was the target of any number of admiring glances from the female students, many of whom, I’m told, chose Psychology as an option to study. He retired in 1984 but soon launched into a second career, applying his counselling and support skills to needy groups, particularly within the Armidale Aboriginal Community. His cheerful, friendly, self-effacing manner and his obvious love of life and concern for others, were qualities that endeared him to everyone he had contact with. Mr Ross spent endless hours listening to students’ problems, encouraging them and helping them through difficult times in their lives. Just as he was able to relate well to his students, he had a fantastic memory for names, and he was also completely at ease with his fellow staff members, who knew him as a man of integrity.

College was great. The standard of education we enjoyed was excellent, but it was at Newling House that my real “education” took place. It was a Darwinian game of survival, the Survival of the Fittest! We lived in each other’s pockets and the enthusiasms and hormonal excesses of our youth were exercised in physically rough and ready ways, but without malice, and so mateship was born. The two years of college were a huge social experience, rather than solely an academic one. We had a ball!

We Newling “men” were housed two to a room in six corridor blocks, each of twelve double rooms. A lecturer, sometimes with family, lived in a suite of rooms at the end of each corridor as a supervisor. A communal toilet complex and a separate communal shower complex served each section. There was a common dining room, a lounge room for entertaining visitors, a billiard room, a music room, a card room and a number of quiet study rooms. Our social life was “interesting”. There were too many male students enrolled to fit into Newling House, so the overflow was housed in rented rooms in private homes around the town, but those fellows spent much of their free time in Newling House. Built of aluminium siding, the residence was a cold hole of a place, minimally heated by steam heaters, only in the corridors! There was no in-room heating at all.

I have vivid memories of those times … of communal shower rooms and communal toilets rooms with individual stalls for a semblance of privacy. Of Mrs Beatty’s corner shop, just a block away, with the Commonwealth Bank agency to cash our monthly stipend cheque. Of Durries, snooker and pool games, table tennis, cards, the in-house student SP bookie, clothes swapping, secret toasties, pies and sausage rolls on Friday evenings, sitting on the corridor steam heaters, waiting for midnight so meat could be consumed without the stabs and pangs of religious conscience. Of trips to the pub or Tatt’s Tavern for liquid refreshment, and how about Meggsy reciting “What it was was football”, hilariously, in the common room? Great memories!

Because of our youth, enthusiasm and innate competitiveness, we students engaged in an overabundance of sporting opportunities. Over the two years you could play a number of sports competitively, or just for fun and relaxation; basketball, tennis, squash, rugby, soccer, athletics, cross country, table tennis, hockey and snooker. We played something most nights and both days at the weekends. Participation earned extra credits towards Physical Education and Health marks. It got us a lot of fun, too, both in the competitions and their celebratory aftermaths.

It wasn’t ALL high jinx and hilarity; there were times of intense study, assignment research slogging and group tutoring support. There were occasions of great moment, even international crises, which we discussed and argued about at length. For example, “The Cuban Missile Crisis”, which resulted in me appreciating the importance of being nearly nuked off the planet, or the planet being nuked from beneath me, and being ever-so thankful for the negotiated settlement which meant it didn’t happen. JFK you were my hero.

In 1963 I would discover what REAL country was! when I graduated from ATC and started teaching in the first of a series of small schools.

I think Charles Dickens said it best when he wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” That’s college life in a nut shell as I recall it. Life is a balancing act. We need the experiences of highs AND lows to really appreciate the good times, the BEST of times. We also need those heartaches, the WORST of times, to appreciate that we are alive … and how blessed we are, we who have been ATC alumni … we experienced the very best of times.

In Praise of College Daze.

When I think about college one thing stands right out;
It’s the greatness of mateship, about that there’s no doubt.
I know that one person’s truth is another person’s lie,
But in praise of college mateship I’ll sing until I die.

There were some pretty cool gals that came out and about in Armidale in the 60s as well, most of them responsible for rev-v-v-ing up our hormones … mine included. Ahhh, those were the days!

Map of Armidale showing the Old Armidale Teachers’ College (1928-1971)

See link to another post about the College, https://www.anneskyvington.com.au/the-class-of-1961-62/

September 23, 2021 2 comments

Guest Post

Things Come in Threes by Ian Wells

What would you do, if you lost your long-term partner? How would you cope with the grief? My Armidale Teachers’ College classmate, Ian, writes about just this. Feel free to share your own experiences of loss in the comments, and we will get back to you.

Successes, disasters and catastrophes, good things, not so good and bad things, always seem to come in threes. My mum was a great believer in this. Why is it so? Scientists have examined the reason why bad things “come in threes”: Their conclusion is … that they simply don’t. Humans habitually look for patterns in random data in a way to extract order from disorder. Another important component is the affinity of the number three in Western culture: there’s multiple examples of this in religion (the Holy Trinity), storytelling (“The Three Pigs”, “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”), literature (the three-act play), and so on. Because of confirmation bias, and our own cultural biases, we just have a tendency to group things in threes.

Because of my mum and (apparently) my cultural bias I, too, believe in this phenomenon. As proof, I offer the fact that my life has been divided into three major sections: Before Wendy, With Wendy and After Wendy.

I first saw Wendy, the one who was to become my wife, when I went to Rollie O’Neill’s milk bar and fruit shop in Dungog in late 1963. I was playing cricket with the village team, Underbank, a team formed of men from the Chichester dairy farming community where I taught in my first school. After cricket the team went en masse to a Dungog pub for refreshments, but their ideas and consumption levels were both at variance to, and far greater than, mine; so I soon chose the milk bar for my post game refreshments. I chose that one, out of the half dozen milk bars in town, because Joy, a young lady from the same community, worked at O’Neill’s. Coincidentally, also working behind that counter was a vivacious young fair headed woman who caught my eye.

Before I met Wendy, I was something of a loose cannon, a tear away; a motorcycle nut who loved climbing hills, shooting rabbits and game for anything adventurous. Normally shy, when under the influence of alcohol I thought I was bullet proof, hilarious and a good catch for any girl. (There’s another reason to limit my alcohol consumption). When I got the courage up to shyly ask Wendy out, she flatly refused. I was determined and asked frequently … each Saturday after cricket … while she was equally firm in refusing each request. Finally her workmate Joy took pity on me and suggested she and her just married husband could double date with us. Wendy reluctantly agreed. The four of us went out each weekend in early 1964 until Wendy became comfortable enough to go out with me alone. Never-the-less we still had many double dates with Joy and her husband Colin.

On Wendy’s nineteenth birthday in 1965 we became engaged and married in the August/September school holidays in 1966. For the next five decades she went with me from school posting to school posting, from one rental home or school residence to the next, till we bought our life time home in Gorokan in 1980 and retired years later. We lived very happily together, raised three boys and a girl and later enjoyed the arrival of two grandchildren, a boy and a girl. Wendy confessed to me many years after we married that, because she was still only seventeen when I first asked her out, and had never had a boyfriend, and because I had already turned twenty, she thought I was too old and too experienced for her. Thank God for Joy’s intervention.

Then in December 2017 after fifty one years of marriage Wendy fell ill, was placed in an induced coma and five days later her children and I had to make the hugely disturbing and almost impossible decision to turn off the life support machinery and let her pass away. How can one make such a decision? I don’t know, but we did, however reluctantly.

Life after Wendy has been a huge struggle and a long road of self-re-education. How does one “get over” such a tragedy? The answer is that one doesn’t, one slowly adjusts, slowly accepts the inevitable and slowly changes their life focus by leaning on family and friends for support along the way. One forms new life patterns, redirecting one’s energy and direction to new and different things while being boosted by the memories of past glories.

Life goes in circles or cycles I have found, and often in threes. Happiness depends on our ability to be SELECTIVE, to be POSITIVE and to CONTINUE JOURNEYING along life’s path, anticipating better days ahead (there’s another three). I have decided to sit back more and to enjoy the natural world around us and be content to just BE! I want to save my time to use it selfishly, though still to be open to the needs of family and friends. I’ll allow my inner wonder to shine through, to be open to the simple things of nature, to nurture my curiosity. I want to have more time for BEING so I can still be DOING … things of my choice.

Chichester is a small New South Wales Rural Location within the local government area of Dungog, it is located approximately 190kms from the capital Sydney covering an area of 218.353 square kilometres. Chichester has a recorded population of 29 residents and is within the Australian Eastern Daylight Time zone Australia/Sydney.

Clover vector icon. Shamrock vector icon on white background

September 22, 2021 9 comments

Guest Post

Coping With Covid

A Perspective from Two Young Women

Covid isolation and protesters as seen through the (younger) eyes and voices of 2 women I am proud to call relatives:

https://www.facebook.com/coronavirus_info/?page_source=covid_vaccine_faxit&hoisted_module_type=covid_vaccine_development

Ange R questions deniers and ‘rebels without a clue’ on Facebook:

I ask you this, why are you protesting about lockdowns when there is so much other shit in the world to get angry about, to fight about, what did you achieve? Is this your middle-aged Braveheart moment, so fucking lame. Now you put yourself out there but not for the benefit of the most vulnerable. STAY the FUCK home and find something real to channel your activism in and get vaccinated because people like my boy can’t. Any variant will kill him and we all have sacrificed so much. #200days

Abira H produces, directs, sings and acts in a comical skit that is deadly serious at the same time!

“Isolated“

[See link to video and sound: https://youtu.be/N3KvcCG02F4]

[Listen Audio Only: High Quality! Music Single Release (High Quality) –>

lyrics:

Going bored out my brains
Cause the world has gone insane
There are people taking walks like dogs … ‘woof woof’
Waiting 9 months to get the vaccination
Wearing masks religiously
Sanitising till it burns
Ahuh huh

We had like barely any cases
Then stupid protesters with uncovered faces
Went frolicking everywhere
Like dude, you’re just sharing your covid air
And Scotty is too slow
With the vaccine jab … oh
We’re gonna die … yeah

August 23, 2021 0 comment

Guest Post Writing

A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton

A Genteel Ghost

a true story by Roger Britton

I never believed in ghosts before, but now I am not quite sure … perhaps a “presence” is what I mean …

St Mary’s Convent and school, in Warren, central New South Wales, had been the home for Josephite nuns for over one hundred years. A shortage of vocations meant that they could no longer staff the school. I had accepted the position of the new lay Principal. This old, two-storey convent, with its iron lacework verandahs, was to be our home. With my wife, Angela and our four children, we moved in during the Christmas holidays of 1977.

A willing band of excited children carted bedding, toys and toiletry items up the stairs. Angela unpacked and set about organising the kitchen boxes and food, knowing that hunger would soon call us to table.

The Lovely Old Convent Building in Warren

February 16, 2016 6 comments

Australia Guest Post

“Kids Will Be Kids” by Ian Harry Wells

Here’s a story from my Teachers’ College friend, Ian Wells. It’s great for me to re-live that all-important primary school teaching experience through his words. It’s the kids’ future that is at stake, and they do it well in small schools.

A Country Police Station

One Police School visit in the mid-seventies was particularly memorable, but it wasn’t so much due to the officers, as it was to the cute kids in my classes. Small schools were nearly all one-teacher schools and mostly on bush roads, often along meandering rough gravel tracks. My school at Coolongolook was a favoured small school for the Police Liaison group to visit, as it was on the Pacific Highway and was easily accessible. There were only two classes, so there was no need to split the ‘task force’ for the visit. The two constables could take a class each and the sergeant could supervise rather than take a class.

The sergeant and I became quite friendly over time, as I invited him to ‘supervise’ (socialise) from the nearby school residence over coffee, munchies and a natter, while the constables each ran their race with the kids. Talk about six degrees of separation; the sergeant and I discovered some mutual friends and acquaintances and also some similar mutual interests; a love of motorbikes not the least of these. In other words, ‘big kids’ stuff! It was quite a pleasant arrangement, which continued year after year for the best part of a decade.

Just before each visit I would remind the kids of their obligations towards visitors, the need to be polite, to listen, not to fidget and not to ask questions—certainly never about the officers’ weapons—until invited and warn them that if I found any of them touching the guns or wearing handcuffs at the end of the visit I would be very annoyed. They were good kids and I had no doubts the day would go well both for them and for the police. I also organised a child from the primary group and another from the infants group to formally thank the officers for their instruction at the end of the visit. This practice of thanking visitors was a normal thing for us and the task was shared around, not always just the duty of a ‘captain’.

The car arrived and two male officers got out and walked to the school building. I met them on the verandah, said my good mornings and asked if there were just the two of them that day.

A reply from the poker-faced sergeant informed me, “Constable Powell is making herself presentable.”

The constable, smiling broadly, like a cheeky kid, added “She’s trowelling on more spakfilla and touching up her lipstick. She’ll be here presently.” This earned a stern sideways glare from the sergeant.

When she arrived shortly after, I saw that Constable Powell was an attractive young lady, but one who obviously knew it. She was also quite heavily made-up.

The rest of the visit went pretty well as per script. After I introduced the constables to the children in their classrooms the sergeant and I went for a coffee, cake and a yarn, while the kids were entertained in class with stories and instructions about stranger danger, road safety, bike safety and being good citizens. At the same time, the young constables tried to fulfill their duty as positive roles models for the children.

The only time a gun-related question was asked was by a Year Three boy, who showed his birds each year at the Nabiac Show: “Can you come and shoot the rotten fox that is after my prize chickens?” He was quite disappointed when the constable said he couldn’t, as he wasn’t allowed to.

There was nobody wearing handcuffs when I checked, either.

The whole school population gathered on the concrete assembly area in front of the verandah for a final farewell. The nominated Year Five child thanked the male constable for his visit and his talk, then presented him with a hand-drawn certificate of thanks. Each child in the class had made a certificate and voted for the one to be presented. Everybody clapped and the constable gave his thanks in response.

A Year Two moppet then came timidly forward to thank Constable Powell.

”I want to say thank you to Comfortable Cow for coming today …” she began. The quickly but barely muffled guffaws from the other two police officers drowned and then cut short the rest of the speech. A shocked lady constable glared at her companions, while slowly going red under all the spakfilla, as they, in turn, made valiant attempts to gain control of themselves.

What a situation. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or feel embarrassed, while the Year Two moppet just stood in confusion, wondering whether or not to say the rest of her speech. I assured her all was fine and to go on. She completed her speech, then shyly handed over the certificate and the police left.

Ian (Harry) Wells

Coolongolook Public School is a small school with a student population of 40. It is situated in a picturesque valley located between Bulahdelah and Nabiac. The school has a very interesting and intriguing history, it is 133 years old!

February 2, 2016 5 comments

Guest Post Writing

a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells

There really are FEELINGS IN YOUR HEART you don’t even know exist until you have a child of your own. It’s a sensation without description.

When our first-born finally arrived, it was the greatest day of my life. A fortnight after the expected time of birth, my wife was put into hospital, as the doctor was worried: the baby was too long overdue. Five days later, with still no signs of action, and on the doctor’s orders, the nurses began inducing the delivery. Two days after that, the baby finally deigned to arrive, but only after some twenty-four hours of labour.

I was teaching the two dozen students in my one-teacher school at Cobbora when the phone rang just before the lunch break that day. It was Doc Campbell ringing from Dunedoo Memorial Hospital telling me I was the father of a boy. He also said both mother and child were well, but very tired due to the protracted labour. I had spent a week batching, but had known THAT day would be THE day; it was Friday the thirteenth after all, when else would it happen?

dunedoo-hospital

January 25, 2016 2 comments

Guest Post Nature Writing

“Snakey” by Roger Britton

I soon learnt Death Adders were dangerous in more ways than one. The common belief among us school boys was that, once you were bitten by a death adder, you only had three minutes before your tongue went black, the whites of your eyes turned pink and you fell over and died in a writhing spasm. This belief sounded reasonable, so no one questioned its accuracy.

In a large preserving bottle was a big ugly brute. It had a wide triangular head, huge fangs and a thick bulbous body with a tapering tail. The grey, black and brown bands would help camouflage it as it lay in wait for its prey. The adder’s eyes seemed to follow us as we dawdled into our Year Six classroom. I knew it was dead and covered with formaldehyde, but I always gave it a wide berth. It had to be the meanest, thickest and wickedest snake that I had ever seen. Bertie Butterfly reckoned its real name was a ‘deaf adder’ as these snakes were stone deaf, but death or deaf, we all knew you didn’t muck around with them.

My first real encounter with one was the day I discovered that I had left my lunch at home. Rather than starve to death, I decided to break school rules and risk a quick bike trip home to retrieve it. I grabbed my trusty push bike and headed off.

The road was so hot that summer that the tar was melting and sticking to my bicycle tyres. When I reached the bottom of our hill, I rode up as far as I could go, before dismounting and pushing my bike at a run.

I was on top of the death adder before I realized it. I gave a shriek of terror and tried to put my right foot over my left shoulder. The bike crashed down on the road and I fled up the embankment.

The snake stayed still. From my vantage point of two metres up, I observed the scene. The death adder seemed stuck to the tar and was, apparently, dead. Gingerly, I crept down the bank and collected my bike. Once more, I resumed my run, though I kept a wary eye out for any other scaly reptile that might have been parboiled.

“Mum! Mum! There’s a death adder stuck on the road!”

The house was empty. She wasn’t home.

I gulped down my lunch and headed back to school, with a biscuit stuffed in my lunch bag.

The snake was still there, and that was the beginning of my downfall. How could I resist acquiring a new specimen for our science table? A handy stick was found, and the dead death adder was poked and prodded into my lunch bag, minus the biscuit.

I arrived at the school corner just as the line-up bell rang. All the students were gathered on the parade ground and, knowing that I’d be late, I parked my bike and snuck in the back door. I was peeved that I didn’t have time to show off my prize to my mates.

Upstairs, I stole a glimpse out the window and saw our class about to ascend the stairs, while the headmaster kept time with a marching drum.

Now, I thought, how should I introduce the snake to the class? Hmmm, why not share the fright that I had had? Without thinking too much, I lifted the lid of Frances’ desk and slipped the death adder on top of her books.

Kenny Curll bounded into the classroom, racing Ferret to be first. The others staggered in, aware that they had a few minutes to gossip before the headmaster could pack away the drum and stride to the classroom. Ferret took up his usual role of cockatoo, ready to call a warning when Old Thumper was in sight.

“Hey Britt, where yuh been?” Curlly enquired.

“Ah, mate, you won’t believe what I found! Come here.”

Curlly sauntered over to my desk. Before I could explain, Ferret sounded the alert.

“Ssshh, Old Thumper’s comin’!”

Students dived for their desks to avoid a confrontation with the headmaster.

“Tell you later, Curlly.”

Frances and I tripped over each other to get to our shared double-desk.

“Quick, Fran, get a book out.”

The expectation was that we had to read quietly whilst awaiting the headmaster.

Frances gave me a smug look, lifted her desk lid, and put her hand in. Her hand touched something warm and clammy.

“Aaaaaaaaahhh!”

Her screech made my hair stand on end. Terrified kids ducked in all directions, screaming in fright and unison with Frances. Something terrible had happened somewhere.

Frances’ eyes widened. She paused for breath, then her shriek grew louder. Suddenly her bladder cascaded down her chair like Niagara Falls. She sprang to her feet and knocked over her desk. The death adder spilled into the jostling crowd.

Instantly the class realized why they were screaming. Additional yelps rent the air. Bodies pressed against the walls and a few pupils collided as they shot out the door.

“What the hell is going on?” bellowed the headmaster.

He was running down the corridor now.

“Stop it you idiots! Keep still the lot of you!”

Classroom conditioning kicked in. Instantly all was hushed. Students remained backed against the wall, warily eyeing the adder of death.

Frances, her chest racked with dry sobs, stood amidst a pool of piddle, her feet frozen to the floor. The death adder’s menacing gaze held everyone in fear, including the headmaster. I edged to the centre of the classroom.

“Its dead, Sir.” I whispered.

All eyes swivelled towards me. Somehow, everyone knew I was the instigator of the chaos. I wanted to ooze down through the floorboards like the slowly receding pee.

“Britton, get that bloody snake out of here!” yelled Headmaster Nebone, forgetting about teacher decorum.

I picked it up on my ruler and once more pushed it in my lunch bag and left the room. Outside in the corridor, I could hear classroom order being restored. Desks were picked up and chairs straightened. Two girls led Frances out and down to the sick bay to change into something from the clothing pool. The three of them gave me reproachful glares. Frances was still softly sobbing.

Curlly came to fetch me, but the snake was to remain outside.

“Oh, man, that was marvellous,” beamed a delighted Curlly, “but boy, are you going to get it now!”

That afternoon I could hardly hold the handlebars of my bike. Three strokes of the cane on each hand had left them stinging and throbbing. Through my watery eyes, I couldn’t help giggling, despite the pain. As Curlly had said, it was an absolutely marvellous event.

It was sad, but Frances never ever saw the funny side of it.

Editor’s Note: I fondly believe that Roger, when he became a teacher of a small school in the 60s, must have experienced a huge wollop of karma from the behaviour of schoolboys in his classes.

January 20, 2016 7 comments

Guest Post

A Guest Post by Ian Wells

A Happy Childhood … by the beach

Memories of Freedom and Security

As a kid, I lived in a treasured place and time. It was the forties and fifties in Brighton-le-Sands. Life was simpler then. Kids could—and did—play outside all day. The crime rate was lower, we were happy with simple things, and only came home when the street lights went on. The streets were much safer places and were the venue for many games.

Back then, we drank water from the tap or from a hose, not from bottles; nobody knew about the dangers of lead poisoning, or asbestos, let alone worrying about fluoride. We ate white bread, biscuits, cheese, real butter and bacon, untrimmed beef or greasy lamb chops, and we drank whole cream milk without any health issue qualms. Those were the days when we knew and trusted all of our neighbors, when we either walked or rode our one family bicycle everywhere we went.

Historic Photo of Brighton-le-Sands School

December 17, 2015 2 comments

Guest Post Poetry Writing

Life is a Beach: a guest post by Ian Wells

Life is a Beach

Have you heard the saying, Life is a beach?
Have you ever strolled along a sandy shore?
Scrunching wet sand deliciously between your toes?

I have

I’ve watched the spray fly,
heard the waves pound
marvelled at dolphins dancing
enjoyed the birds’ aerobatic antics.

I’ve felt the sting of the hot sun on my flesh
while breathing in the tang of sweet salty air.
I’ve licked briny beads from my lips and tasted the sea.
I’ve walked with a well-loved someone, warmed inside and out,
talking and smiling and caring,

touching and laughing in the sun,
sharing our past, our present and our future.

Born and raised by the beach, I left for a while,

but the beach’s lure meant I just HAD to return.

Live well, laugh and love the beach, I cry.
I think I’ll always be passionate about my life…

and I’ll be so with a very special place in mind.

Life IS a beach!

December 13, 2015 2 comments