Fifties nostalgia

After reading Bill Bryson’s book entitled “Thunderbolt Kid” about his boyhood experiences growing up in the USA, I was reminded of my own childhood experiences. I grew up in the picturesque small dairy farming town of Kyogle situated on the NSW side of the border with Queensland. The back fence was all that separated our house from fields of grazing cattle and the river; an endless source of entertainment and excitement for me. I was scarcely ever indoors, coming in only to listen with bated breath to the daily radio broadcast of “The Search for the Golden Boomerang” and other popular radio serials broadcast then. Radio, books, comics, making sling shots, bows and arrows, climbing trees or exploring the river banks kept us actively interested, I can never recall feeling bored. In later life when I watched the same radio script on TV I was sorely disappointed, actors and sets seemed surprisingly insipid and imprisoned on the tiny screen.

I loved the weekly visit to the movies. Afterwards we feasted on chips, smothered in salt and dripping with fat, wrapped up unceremoniously in old newspapers- mana from heaven to me. When I returned home it was time to re enact the scenes, embellishing the story line to make it more exciting whilst playing in the bush outside.

Supermarket shopping didn’t exist but there was a constant stream of merchants and visitors to our house, the milkman at first light filling your jug with fresh milk and cream, a baker carrying his basket under his arm of freshly baked bread exuding its enticing aroma, the postman’s shrill whistle, ice from an ice cart for your ice chest, an insurance man collecting the premiums and an occasional salesperson perhaps selling encyclopaedias.

Each week the faithful ‘Dunny man” had to carefully exchange your full dunny for an empty one which was an operation that required a combination of brute strength (as they were rather heavy when full) and skill to ensure you didn’t spill any of the contents out while lifting on to the truck. The contents were respectively referred to as “Night Soil”.

My best pal conveniently lived next door; he was several years older and the wrestling champion of the local neighbourhood. I soon leant that I was not going to be strangled and die when he engaged me in wrestling contests on our front lawn, surviving his favourite head locks. There seemed no point in complaining since my parents seemed totally disinterested in my dire predicament. The wrestling experience turned out to be invaluable when I went off to school, when dealing with an older school bully. He launched his attack on me on the way home; as he had promised and I thought, I was a goner but I would do my best. To my surprise and the small crowd gathered around to watch (fights were usually premeditated which gave everyone the chance to come along and watch) I managed to get a decent head lock on him and wrestled him to the ground. To my astonishment and relief it was soon over; as he heeded the chant of the crowd. He’s got you!! , He’s got you!! Give-up, Give Up!!

Christmas time was always an exciting time and receiving a Bike for a Christmas present eclipsed all known joyous experiences in my life up to that point in time. My parents sensing my excitement had laid a string throughout all of the rooms of the house and back down the stairs to be attached to the bike situated on the front lawn. Christmas morning at first light they invited me to follow the string and see what was on the end of it. Needing no encouragement I tore through the house and in a state of heightened excitement finally surveyed a wondrous bike. It was the singular most exciting thing in my life. I immediately hopped on and cycled away. It didn’t matter a fig to me that it was an old bike, painted and spruced up with a false “Malvern Star” sticker on it, it was simply the best thing that could have ever happened and I was far too excited and happy to notice or bother. It was only in later life when I recalled the details in my mind I could see the bubbly paint work, to cover the rust and the shiny bell on an old frame. Freedom is an elusive state but I never felt as carefree as riding that bicycle around in the country.

Australia in the fifties was very conservative, fiercely loyal to the Queen under the guiding hand of Prime Minister Robert Menzies. During Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation we all made up scrap books as school projects. When she visited Australia no one really knew why we should all be excited, it was as if we were all swept along with this national bout of infectious enthusiasm and delight for the Queen. The cheers of the schoolchildren echoed everywhere as the Queen was greeted with unanimous delight.

During this time there was migration under the white Australia policy where assimilation was the norm. Immigrants were expected to abandon their cultures and languages, to quickly assimilate into the mainstream of the Australian way of life as distinct from the present day concept of multiculturalism. Multiculturalism is an acknowledgment of our differences, diversity celebrated together under the core values and institutions that bind us. Those immigrants then traditionally worked in the factories and where labor was scarce. Many set up innovative businesses and went on to become captains of present day industry. Migration changed the shape and feel of Australia by introducing other cultures and interests to help form an integral part of who we are to day. Australia has been enriched by their efforts. We are a multilingual. Multicultural society doing business with the entire world and no longer tied to England. Capital cities are centers of diversity, engaging in new ideas, and evolving as we speak.

This prosperity has not been shared equally; it has come at the expense of the traditional custodians of the land, our Aborigines. Aborigines are very forgiving people; all most ask is to say sorry about past atrocities and injustices. When I was growing up in the fifties I was blissfully unaware of the injustices, but I had no trouble in saying “sorry” just as I do now, “Sorry”.

Kizitos & the Angels

Bryan Pipins is a Jesuit from Melbourne who has worked in East Timor and the Philippines. Last year he was in Darfur, and is presently in Northern Uganda working for the Jesuit Refugee Service.If you would like to read his interesting article entitled "Kizitos and Angels " publshed by "Eureka Street" click here.

A Bird Bath

Rainbow Lorikeets have become plentiful in Eltham as a consequence of the prolific Eucalyptus tree planting carried out from the mid eighties. When we fist arrived in 1983 none were seen in contrast to today. Their screeches at dusk in the trees of the township are deafening.

Depite their brilliance, striking colours of emerald green, orange, blue, red, lemon yellow, purple and violet greenish grey they blend beautifully into the trees and consequently are difficult to spot.

They obtain moisture from water trapped in the leaves, but can also drink water and like having a bath in the bird bath in our back yard. With the drought it has become quite popular, so much so that jostling and fights brake out among this gregarious group as to whose turn it is to go first. Eventually the throng settles down to wait patiently in turn for their chance for a refeshing bath and sunbake.

MONTSALVAT

Montsalvat, located close to where I live in Eltham is an interesting mixture of buildings set on 12 acres. Artist and architect Justin Jorgensen purchased the land in 1934 and with a dedicated group of volunteers established an artist’s colony of painters, sculptors, poets, and musicians. Building materials used were rescued from many of the old beautiful building sites being demolished in Melbourne to make way for modernisation. Extensive use was also made of mud bricks, rammed earth, mud stone and bush timbers combined with slate flooring and stained glass windows. The community’s quest was to be self sufficient as they operated a dairy and small farm.

Many of the descendants of the original community today inhabit the adjoining cottages as sculptor’s painters and musicians. The appearance is of a European Castle with its adjoining chapel surrounded by the artist’s residences, which were once stables and storehouses.

Fear now rules the centre stage

Malcolm Fraser, former prime Minister of Australia has been a particularly vocal critic of the present Howard Government approach to human rights.

He contends it is vital to maintain liberty and there is no justification to believe we must curtail such liberty by a change of the rule of Law in response to the perceived threat of terrorism.

I remember the party I joined, the party of Menzies, of liberal and progressive ideas, a forward-looking party, willing to make experiments. As Menzies himself put it, a party that believes fervently in the Rule of Law, in higher education accessible to all able students, in a government accepting national obligations and a vision for the future, a party that slowly abolished the White Australia Policy and broadened Australia to a more open, multicultural society. It was a party of hope and of vision.

Fraser has become particular disillusioned with Prime Ministers Howard’s approach in government and I agree with his concerns. There is no doubt some changes to the law were appropriate to deal with the threat of terrorism. However the 37 new laws passed represent an exercise in extreme haste, for I think such laws were passed with inadequate debate. The end result is the removal of many of the checks and balances that protect us against mistaken false arrest and conviction.

The presumption of innocence that existed for so long, important to our society, is now removed and replaced with justified suspicion. Our laws now make no distinction between soldiers and civilians, or between legitimate and illegitimate motivations. Under these new laws, you need be only suspected of committing an offence, need not be charged and can be taken into secret detention by police or the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO), with little or no right to contact family. You have only limited rights to speak to a lawyer.

Whilst there are limits on who can be detained and for the period of time the prospect of secrecy looms. The previous security available as defence in an open courtroom is lost and the whole system invites abuse. I am heartened to see some progress of repeal in Canada who enacted very similar laws. See Gary's blog; I hope we will eventually follow suite.

We have also created a detention centre in Nauru, to proceeds offshore refugees at a horrendous expense. I have visited Nauru and observed its desolate lunar landscape, a legacy of the phosphate mining which rendered the island useless except for a tiny green band around its outer perimeter. The processing offshore enables us to avoid our obligations as a Country, out of sight and mind but the cost is very high, at about 2 million per refugee.

I wonder how many people remember the 137,000 boat people who arrived penniless, as refuges on our shores from Vietnam in the late seventies. Except for isolated pockets they have assimilated very well in to the Australian way of Life. We were not nearly as fearful then and I remember talking to them, about their journey in open boats on the high seas subject to pirates and the cruel sea.

I composed a poem entitled: “Fear now rules the centre stage” as per below.

Count we did the human cost
Precious life blood that was lost
Fear stirred up a mighty rage
Fear rules our centre stage

Laws passed in fearful haste
Liberty, the law replaced
War on terror, our political pride
Render helpless enemies outside

Pacific solution is our history
Nauru’s new trade in misery
Cost of millions per refugee
Solution now far out to sea?

I remember a time of national debate
Vietnam refuges now hardly rates
137,000 amassed on our shores
Where are the age old sores?

Laws enacted please overturn
A time for freedoms wheels to turn
Freedoms guest book please re-design
War on Terror, phoney war this time

Early morning rain gave way to light drizzle bringing a welcome relief from endless days of heat.Our friendly Kookaburra who is very tame, allowed me to walk up within arms length to take these pictures. He
enjoyed a tasty morcel beside me on the ground.

Symphony of Creation

My youngest daughter Rachael had asked me to write lyrics for an intended musical composition, based on an article I had written entitled "Immortal Quantum Faith".

As a result I composed Symphony of Creation which is a poem that celebrates science and faith moving forward together.

No longer need they be considered as having irreconcilable conflicting differences.

It commemorates my faith in the spirit of creation itself, inspired by the majestic nature of our infinite universe and the sense of wonderment in engenders

Symphony of Creation

Form, of mystery, light spread out from sing-ul-ar-ity
A form, continues, with each breath, symbol of my life as yet
So, let me know no more, that I may know the splendour
Of the light filled, ONE agenda

Form, is it but our own reflection, illusions of our expectation
Hidden in the time of present, lonely in its own pure presence
Continued on, deep within us, calling forth, our own surrender
Of the light filled, ONE agenda.

Form of worm hole travel backwards, space time changes state
The conscious mind now existing, listens always, emotions birth
Thoughts will now last forever, guided by a spirits a light
To the light filled ONE agenda.

Form of ONE, itself to know
Form of two, a desire of ONE
Form of memory, the ONE it knows
The ONE true Light of Love

A Wayward Tourist.

Nature, over billions of years, has shaped a marvellous Australian landscape, an ancient backdrop to our mere 230 year old, post-British-invasion, cultural identity. Since the early British colonies, the Australian cultural identity has developed and changed from that of a near British replica that failed to honour or acknowledge indigenous Australians, to a multicultural enlightening urbanised mass reconnecting with a sense of place in our environment. Inspired by Mark Twains enthralling account of his 2 month lecture tour of Australia in 1897 entitled the “Wayward Tourist,” I have composed this article which looks at early Australia and how it has developed as an emerging young nation with a unique melting-pot identity.

When Twain wrote the Wayward Tourist in 1897, Australia had just recovered from the effects of the earlier land boom and was enjoying the highest living standards in the world. His lectures speak diversely of Australia’s many endowments, although not shared by the aboriginal community. Twain devotes several chapters on their plight, at pains to point out a people downtrodden from colonisation yet retaining remarkable skills as hunters and trackers. He deplores the ultimate decimation of the Tasmanian aborigines with a brilliant yet savage use of “black humour”; please excuse the pun!

Our sense of humour and romantic notion of the bush still persists, as was epitomised by such remarkable poets as Henry Lawson and Banjo Patterson. Lawson was a city bound chap; only venturing out in the bush briefly for a month during his life. Hardly surprising with such a population concentration in the eastern seaboard, exasperated ever since due to a lack of arable land. Today Australia remains one of the most urbanised countries in the world.

I also think our own sense of humour and lack of reverence to authority is still prevalent with a propensity to “pull one legs” so to speak. Amongst good friends it's even acceptable to affectionately refer to an older colleague as a “silly old bastard”. Twain himself appears to have become susceptible to having his own leg pulled by the locals as he refers to a story of a sheep eating cockatoo.

At that time of his visit, before the advent of Federation at the turn of the century each State was loyal to mother country England. After Federation that commitment continued with huge sacrifices (60,000 killed in WW 1 from a population of 4 million) in both world wars. It was perpetuated further by Prime Minster Sir Robert Menzies who served as Prime Minister between 1939-1941 and then uninterrupted from 1949-1966; retiring at aged 70.
Menzies was more English than the English themselves. Famous author and archaeologist Jared Diamond (Author of Collapse; why civilisations collapse and Guns Germs and Steel) remarked at a recent lecture when last visiting Australia that during his earlier visit in the early sixties the country was a carbon copy in thought and culture of England. Menzies presided over a period of rapid post war growth, fuelled by migration under the White Australia policy and exceptionally high birth rates. There were 4 million births between 1946 and 1961, and that group known as the Baby boomers still have considerable political clout.

Australia remained somewhat of a cultural desert for artists until the late fifties and early sixties when a number of important cultural centres were finally established that supplemented the earlier establishment of the Australian Broadcasting commission in 1932 ( The ABC ). In 1956; The Australian Opera, 1959; the National Institute of Dramatic Art and in 1961 the Australian Ballet. Despite these additions Australia continued to import most of its culture from abroad particularly from the “Dream machines” from what was being manufactured in America. Roy Rogers and tales from the Great Dividing Range featuring cowboys and Indians dominated my childhood memories, as did spitfires, fighters and tales about adventures set in England.

Today I still think we suffer from a lack of home spun culture. Not many people realise that more attend culture and art in Australia than Sport, but the institutions that serve us, including all popular mediums continue to be under funded and forced to import and rely on an ever increasing slice of programmes from overseas.

The post war period continued on at times in blissful ignorance, with racial prejudice and abuses never far away, hidden away by a majority who enjoyed a seemingly carefree existence, much like as is described by author Bill Bryson’s account of the life and times of Thunderbolt Kid in America when he recalls that “growing up was easy. It required no thought or effort on my part. It was going to happen anyway”.
In Australia Aborigines were still not considered Australian citizens until finally as a consequence of national referendum they were given the vote in 1962.

It was in the sixties that most of the earlier post war respect for authority was challenged with the arrival of the flower power generation who protested against the establishment and authority. More liberal ideas flourished which brought improvements for a more open society but I think it was also a time of self indulgence exclusive to those who fully endorsed its self serving ideology.

Since then culture and diversity which was a feature of the aborigines has been more recently adopted by the Australian Government. Multiculturalism has been introduced to the Australian way of life with varying degrees of success. As a country we have the highest rate of intermarriage between first and second generation migrants.

Further to these positive changes is a changing attitude to the land. I think this aspect is well summed up by Jarred Diamond when he talked about Australia and what has changed from over 40 years ago when he was last here. It was all about the Land, he said, the new spirit within the country that acknowledges it is not here for us to do with it whatever we please.We have a responsibility to preserve it for ever. He saw grounds for cautious optimism. I also see the same glimmers of hope for our old land; Politicians of both persuasions are finally coming to groups with the need for land care conservation and looking after the environment.

To day I think the most striking difference Twain would observe in Australia is our changed attitude to the land; this would be a real revelation.

NTANDIRE BULDING WORKS COMMNENCED.

The next project being undertaken by the Malawi Support Group are building works at Ntandire for a church and hall in Shantytown. The above photo and those on the linked Malawi Support Group website were taken on the 10th December. They show the celebratory mass dedicating the area and of a people overjoyed at the prospect they will have somewhere to meet. I am pleased to report we have sent off US $9,340 and already 200* 50 kg bags of cement, 20 tons of stone and 21 tons of sand costing US $2,340 have been purchased from these funds. The work has begun in earnest as foundations have already been established with the different sections laid voluntarily by the respective christian communities of Ntandire. I hope to bring more photos as work progesses.

In Sickness and in Health -by Eddie Laloe

This sad yet uplifting story is written by Fr Eddie Laloe, Chaplain at Kenyatta hospital. The article was published in the January edition of ''Africa" a publication of St Patrick’s Missionary Society. The story is juxtaposed with the ancient Song of Solomon.

My beloved is mine and I am his –2:16.
Saturday evening. The lifts, the stairs, the wards are crowded with visitors from all over the country; people in Kenya are very attentive to all who are sick. Hard to do any work and I decided to get out of the hospital early.

I was about to move when Sister Teresia, another chaplain, led to me to Floor 8. When I got there she told me, “Consolata is quite sick. Total kidney failure and the doctors have informed her they are unable to do anything more for her. She and her husband have been planning for a long time to marry. Maybe we could have the wedding here. It would have to be soon.”

We talked with Consolata. She was quite puffy, breathless and really looked old. But yes she wanted to celebrate her marriage with her husband, Emelio.

From snow –tipped Mount Kenya
Their home was on the slopes of Mount Kenya, a wide snow –tipped mountain more than one hundred and thirty miles from Nairobi. Teresia said she would arrange to contact him by mobile and tell him to come as soon as possible. I asked her to tell him to avoid any complications, just come himself and we would do the rest.

Teresia said, optimistically, that she expected he would come the next day. I said to myself he might turn up Wednesday or Thursday.

I was in the office after the first Mass on Sunday. Teresia came and said, “The man is here.” I asked her, “What man?” She said,”The man for the wedding”. I had forgotten.

He came in, a young looking man. He had received the message late the previous evening. He left his house at four in the morning, walked a considerable distance to the road, eventually found a mtatu (small bus), got to the nearest town and eventually made it to Nairobi.
Behold, he comes, leaping over the mountains, bounding over the hills (2:8).

We explained to him that he could marry there and then, no rings, no wedding dress…..just themselves and God. He kept shaking his head amazed that, after waiting and postponing for so long, things could be so simple.

Two People in Love
Next, up to the ward. Consolata was weak and dull, but lit up when seeing Emelio. My Lover is radiant and ruddy, he stands out among thousands (5, 10)

I explained to the ward sister that Consolata was going to get married and, while we could do the ceremony in the ward, it would be better if she was allowed to go to the chapel. She said. “I never heard of a wedding in a hospital”, We did one on Sunday three weeks ago “.

Once she agreed, she was totally helpful. She organised the wheelchair. Consolata put on her dress and came down in the lift. Meanwhile we arranged for a married couple to be a witnesses, bridesmaid and best man.

The very simple ceremony started, about 7 people altogether in the chapel. Anxious about Consolata's lack of energy we moved the mass along quickly, preached for 60 seconds flat that marriage was not about rings or cakes or dresses but 2 people loving each other and accepting each other for life. Then came the ceremony itself.

Consolata was sitting until then but now insisted on standing, supported, for the exchange of vows.

“Emelio, do you take Consolata as your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in joy and sorrow. In sickness and in health. To love her and respect her all the days of her life?” “I do.”Consolata, the same quastion, "I do ".

That’s the core of the marriage. We had no rings. It didn’t seem to matter. Though I was trying to rush things, Consolata seemed in no hurry, three or four times I asked her, “Are you feeling alright” She never answered. Instead she just said each time, “I am so happy.”
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for the winter is past, the rain has come and gone. The flowers appear on the earth. The time of singing has come (2, 12)

In the Shadow of Death
If you have never shed tears at a wedding, you are likely to shed tears at such a wedding. Weddings are joyful but when celebrated in the shadow of death there has to be pain in the heart. Why was Consolata so happy? They had known each other since primary school. She had been young and beautiful.

She knew that now she was no longer beautiful and that however much she might hope for a miracle her days were numbered.But Emelio truly loved her and had come bounding over the hills to let her know that even if she was now weak, no longer beautiful, no longer able to work, he loved her. He had not withdrawn that love.Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm (8, 6).

At this wedding Mass they shared for the first time together the one Bread and the one Cup. They signed the register and we left the church.

We had bought a few sodas and someone has bought a simple cake. Consolata was in no rush to be back in the ward. This was the day she wanted to hold on to. The cake was divided and we took a few of the sodas.

The Bridesmaid stood up. “This is the most wonderful wedding I was ever at. Today I have really understood for the first time what marriage means. It is, indeed, not about a wedding dress, rings, food or photos. On a wedding day you can be so anxious about everything that you cannot understand or enjoy it. To day I have seen that it is about a women and a man loving each other forever and telling that to one another before other people. I wish we could all know what a wedding is really about”.

I, too, realised more clearly that we should let the wedding liturgy speak for itself. Let the words, the actions speak out. Don’t cover things up with flowers, processions, carpets, long drawn out words, fancy singing. Don’t let a photographer, in shabby jeans chewing gum, take away the dignity. Keep it simple. And let the simplicity speak.

A Story Simple and Profound.
Consolata was in no rush but eventually she was taken back to her ward. She rallied a bit and left the hospital a few days later with her husband.

Who is coming up from the desert, leaning upon her lover? (8, 15) She and Emelio went back to their home on the side of Mt Kenya.
Within 3 weeks she was dead.
She died knowing she was totally loved.
For love is strong as death …its flash as flashes of fire…Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.