Bob Middleton mourns the loss of Australia’s last great dairy farmers’ co-operative. ​

By Bob Middleton

FRED Hollows, the New Zealand/Australian ophthalmologist famous for his work in restoring eyesight to thousands of people around the world, and especially to the indigenous people of Australia, was a fan of the author Michael Ondaatje. I recall reading a newspaper article about how angry Fred was when his life was ending and he realised he would not be afforded the time to finish reading The English Patient, Ondaadje's most famous novel.
 
The news item has stayed with me, not just because of my admiration for Fred Hollows but also because of Ondaatje, my favourite writer. His novel In the Skin of a Lion, written five years earlier, is at the top of my list. Part of the reason is that, as one reviewer put it, "... it is a poem to workers and lovers".
 
Ondaatje took the title for his book from a passage in The Epic of Gilgamesh: "The joyful will stoop with sorrow, and when you have gone to the earth I will let my hair grow long for your sake, I will wander through the wilderness in the skin of a lion."
 
Very early in the book Ondaatje tells about a young farm boy watching in the faint dawn light as thirty itinerant loggers carrying lanterns move to the side of the road in hushed politeness to let cows move from pasture to barn for milking. "Sometimes the men put their hands on the warm flanks of these animals and receive their heat as they pass by."
 
I, too, know that feeling. In my early years I had to rouse cows in the morning darkness, gathering and herding them in their silent protest towards the cow shed. I was assigned the ones that had to be hand milked and was grateful for their warmth on those cold mornings as I rested my head on their flank and enticed them to let down their milk.
 
Now, after a life time spent elsewhere, I find myself settled down in country inhabited by herds of dairy cows, fields dotted with bales of silage wrapped in plastic coats the colours of the rainbow, disused butter factories or their ruins as I pass through places like Archie's Creek, Kongwak and, on a first recent visit, Glengarry.
 
I know this is a bit of a stretch but what has prompted these thoughts and memories of my fleeting affair with the dairy industry is the sad news that the once all-powerful Murray Goulburn Co-operative Company is teetering on the edge of oblivion. Due to cut-throat competition, milk prices, commercial performance and other complex issues beyond my ken it now has a binding agreement to sell out to Saputo, the Canadian dairy giant. We are saying goodbye to a company that is 100 per cent controlled by its dairy farmer suppliers and that operates under co-operative principles.
 
The co-operative commissioned Catherine Watson to research and record their history and her book Just a Bunch of Cow Cockies was published in 2000. The title was inspired by one of the 100-plus interviews she conducted during her research. Jim Gemmell, the founding chairman, said "You know, we were as rough as guts when we started out. We were just a bunch of cow cockies who did our best. But look at what we have now!”
 
Catherine relates a story from their formative days of a meeting held at the Cobram factory. A delegation from the Kraft head office in Melbourne had travelled down to remind the Murray Valley company (as it was known then) that it was set up as a cheese factory and should not be supplying whole milk. After discussing the matter, the Murray Valley directors told them they would adhere to their city milk contracts. That didn’t go down well with the men from Kraft, and their spokesman replied "We’re very sorry that’s your decision, but I have to tell you we'll break you if we can."
 
It used to be said that the co-operative was bound to succeed because the directors were too pig-headed to know when they were licked.
 
Ordinary men and women representing ordinary farmers, sticking together.
 
The cover of the book pictures a lone milkman hand milking in an old lean-to shed. And I think hey! that looks like me. 

By Bob Middleton

​MY TWO daughters came down to catch up for Christmas and the New Year, a sort of two-for-the-price-of-one visit. I’m not that comfortable with the “came down” phrase.  Seems a bit of a putdown in some way for us country dwellers but then we do travel “up” to the city. That’s if you are nuts enough to want to go there in the first place. And you can’t travel “up” both ways so one of us has to give way.
 
Anyway, somewhere during their visit we got around to talking books or to be more precise we talked about reading. When they were young, bedtime reading was essential if peace was to reign of an evening. I was reminded that many evenings were not readings as such but telling stories constructed on the spot. It’s easy to get away with that if your audience is only four or five years old. I seem to remember my Freddy the Fish was a best seller in its time.
 
When I was that young, my burning ambition was to be able to read solo so I no longer had to rely on others. I know my desire for such an achievement was greater than when I reached the driving licence year.
 
Now one daughter is a librarian and a lover of books of all genres while the other in her busy family and professional life confesses to reading one book a year. I think even that is stretching it a bit. Did I succeed with one and fail with the other in the art of storytelling? They say emphatically no, they treasure the memories of those times, they just put different values on the long-term outcomes. I also hold those memories dear so that’s just fine with me.
 
After they had left, I began to ponder on those days long gone and got to thinking about the nature of love in all its many guises. My love for these two middling-aged women is so far removed from the love I had for those two little girls. So different that I cannot put it into words but I think they know and understand.
 
It is strange how so many men shy away from the love word as if it were a finite commodity to be carefully rationed out. Perhaps some see it as an admission of weakness. In part, that may be because we get such little exposure to the concept of love, especially from our daily papers and TV news. And who in their right mind in their masculine world would be interested in stories of the heart when footy and big bash cricket and Highway Cops are available?
 
Mind you, they have a point. Love can be a minefield of heartbreaks of the very worst kind. Nevertheless I quickly reach for the remote when yet another piece of “breaking news” flashes across the screen exposing us to scenes of blood-soaked road crashes, the devastation of war and the unimaginable cruelty of famine. I know only two people who do not and will not own a television and I admire them like I admire those who are vegetarians though I know I have not got the willpower to join them.
 
There is a line in the song Cannibals where the father is taking his young son up the stairs to tuck him in to bed.  The father tells him a story as he goes and assures the boy that cannibals are no more so he may sleep in peace. But the child turns to his father and says “Daddy, why do people go to war?”  I don’t have an answer for that. Some questions are just unanswerable.
 
What we need is a TV channel that only gives us the good bits so we can turn away from the reality of this wounded world where love seems to have taken a back seat.
 
But then that’s returning to fantasy land. That’s reaching back for those bedtime story days and we know we can never do that. 

It’s an oft-told tale of the need to downsize as the years pile up. Steep country is not kind to old legs and two acres of garden seems to grow larger day by day. There is much wisdom in moving closer to essential services as we grow older. Now the medical centre, hospital and shops are within easy reach and, more importantly, Dan Murphy is just around the corner. And it no longer takes a 30-minute drive to visit our friends who live down this way.
 
There will always be regrets for things we inevitably have to leave behind. Looking out over the surrounding dairy lands we were captivated by the colourful display of the changing seasons. The closing off of paddocks for the grass to grow for next year’s hay, the movement of the herds as cows were dried off and rested and the parade of heavy machinery coming together for the  harvest. Yes, we miss that hustle and bustle and the lowing of cows and bellowing of bulls.
 
Then there was the magic of watching the moon’s journey throughout the year from our bedroom window as it navigated its way across the sky following the paths set down by the laws of the universe. Those heavy fogs that would roll in, blanketing our world. We almost lost a friend who stayed overnight. Curly was a cattle breeder and bushman from the high plains who insisted on going out to buy the morning paper. As he went down the drive through the morning fog, he slowly vanished like a ghost and I felt a twinge of concern. By the time he found his way back the morning news was no longer new. But true bush men don’t have any time for those GPS gadgets.
 
Our new place retains that feel of open country as it backs onto the fairways of the golf course and we are within a good tee shot from the wetlands. A feature that is not lost on Charlie, our small and adventurous dog. Mobs of kangaroos come right up to our back fence but he now ignores their visits. Which is just as well as they never took any notice of him anyway.
 
We do miss the variety of birds that visited us at Jeetho West where we recorded over 50 species. Here we are down to about 15 which are mostly imports. I do hope that doesn’t sound racist for we are grateful for the company. Having planted a bed of grevilleas along the drive we hope to attract some of the smaller honeyeaters in time but for now it is a popular meeting place for rowdy wattle birds.
 
Another important change we are slowly getting a hold on is the waste collection with those brightly coloured bins. A welcome relief from the monthly trailer load carted off to the Grantville tip. I like to put our bins out early so as to give the neighbours some guidance. Why, only last week as I approached home there was our yellow lid shining like a beacon amongst all the red. Oh no, I thought they’ve got it wrong again.
 
Still I think we are settling in to this new phase of our life. The apple trees planted last year are looking healthy and leafy and the manageable vegetable garden is showing promise and is crowded with herbs, silver beet and too much garlic. I have a good feeling we are going to be OK. 

FOR someone who baulks at the thought of travelling to Melbourne, I was surprised to find myself saying yes to an interstate trip. Well I suppose NSW is not that big a deal especially if it is just over the border. My partner was so keen to visit our interstate friends that she finally came up with a plan to lure me away from our comfy Wonthaggi home. Her offer was that we could fly, drive the entire way or a mix of drive, train and bus. Take your pick, she said.
 
A rather loaded question but at least I had a choice so opted for the latter. It had the promise of easy stages. The plan was to drive to Castlemaine staying overnight, train to Swan Hill and then bus to our destination of Buronga. Where’s Buronga, you may well ask. If you should be so inclined you could walk out of our host’s house over a lush green lawn through the palms and ancient red gums and dive into the mighty Murray. With the existing slow current you should end up on the opposite bank looking down the main street of Mildura.
 
It has been a long time since I visited Castlemaine and I had not fully appreciated how well this historic gold mining city had protected itself from progress. Remember this is where the locals told the McDonald chain they were not welcome to peg out a claim
 
The first challenge came the following morning at a time when sensible people would be contemplating their second cup of coffee. We arrived at the rail station where car parking was already tight and the platform busy with Melbourne-bound workers and racks of tangled bikes. This is a city of people who know how to travel.
 
But we are on the Melbourne-bound platform and must make our way over to the other side which is deserted and windswept clean. It reminds me of a scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. We successfully negotiate the connecting tunnel and my worst fears come into view. A stairway of Mt Everest magnitude leading us to our out-bound platform.
 
Already my partner is at the top with her suitcase while I am two steps above base camp. “Wait” she says “I’ll come down”. Then along comes my saviour, a young lass with a babe in a pusher. “Here, let me help” and applying the foot brake grabs my case and glides up the stairs and back before her abandoned baby could blink. My feelings are a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. She could at least have made it look difficult.
 
Then some doubt creeps into my partner’s mind. This platform looks too neglected for her liking. So back down the stairs, through the tunnel and around to the stationmaster’s office once more. “Yes madam, all trains leave from this platform”. Back through the tunnel and up Mt Everest with some urgency. Time is moving on. Thanks to gravity our descent is quick, though I have some concern for the gift bottle of booze as my case bounces its way to the bottom.
 
No need to panic. We still have time before our train is due and are entertained by the mobile phone conversation two benches up. The incoming voice is loud and clear to all as we hear that Jane has put her house on the market and will move to Queensland and yes Sybil is fine and has taken up golf. So good to share these gems of private conversations with us all. 
 
The rest of the journey is drama free. Instead of catching the bus we are picked up at Swan Hill by our hosts and lunch at a very posh restaurant, our table dappled in the shade of huge river gums. The two-hour drive to Buronga takes us through Robinvale with never-ending groves of almond trees and row upon row of table grape vines covered with white plastic sheets.
 
After four days beside the peaceful Murray we turn home again but potential trouble looms. Castlemaine waits ahead. My partner has arranged our cases at the exit door at the far end of our carriage so that we will depart hassle free when we arrive. “You stay here until the train stops and then come down.”
 
So I wait, then grab her pink jacket and untangle my walking stick from under the seats, thank the man across the aisle who had manhandled our luggage into the overhead racks and head down towards the exit door. But I have left my run too late. Already there is a wall of new arrivals coming on board and blocking my exit. “Move over, you lot, I’ve got to get off” I cry in mounting panic but they have nowhere to go.
 
I shoulder my way to the door but now the red light is flashing. I pull in vain with all my might. My partner is outside wildly hammering on the door. In desperation she takes off, no doubt to give the driver a piece of her mind. As she vanishes from view I have this sinking feeling that I may be seeing her for the last time.
 
Then another miracle. Our carriage attendant appears. “Are you trying to get off?” he asks. Somehow he contacts the driver and the door light turns a beautiful green. I tumble out into her arms, pink jacket and walking stick flying. She tells me later the handful of people gathered on the platform were greatly amused by our performance and I think I may have heard a ripple of applause.
 
The next day there it is. The lovely curve of the coast line and Bass Strait as the road swings around into Kilcunda. Buronga has its charms but it is good to be home.

Gold town verses Coal town? No contest. 

By Bob Middleton
March 12, 2016

TWO acres of bush, a dozen or so badly placed native shrubs, some rather large garden beds and a vegie plot that had gone feral. We were in need of help and Michael answered our plaintive cry.

Now he comes up weekly from Krowera to throw himself into battle against this botanical invasion. Usually a Tuesday morning but that can vary. You see, Michael has a problem. He has a weak heart, the kind that melts when he sees someone or something in need.  Somewhere along the path of life Michael got dusted with kindness.

The other morning he rang to cancel his visit due to an urgent need to build a chook house. That came as a surprise to us. We knew he had a couple of horses, two old pet steers,  a dog and a cat, a house gecko of 13 years standing and a friendly visiting fox, but nothing about chooks.

He said he was sitting in this dead-end lane viewing the V8s racing around the Island circuit when a rooster came strutting up. “This poor creature’s been dumped and is in need of a loving home,” Michael thought. “Come sit with me and I shall take thee to a place of safety.” He didn't say where he housed him for the first night but by the second he had him secure in a newly built fortress.

As time went by we got weekly updates about the level of crowing that came from Rooster Palace but eventually either this island bird realised he had found his home or the family adjusted to a newly acquired farm yard serenade.

We get these weekly reports from Michael during the morning break as we sit sipping tea.    He tells us he has held down two jobs throughout his working life, 21 years in each. That degree of loyalty and dependability continues in his retirement years as he takes on caring for farm animals also in retirement.     

These days he cares for pets discarded by children who are children no more. They have moved on to join an adult world. That’s why the horses. The steers came to keep the grass down.
He admits he does not feel that comfortable around horses, yet for years he has been going out daily to care for their needs. Rugging them up on cold winter nights, paying for vet care, hoof trimming, regular worming. Travelling to Lang Lang to get feed, especially for the old mare after she lost all her teeth and needed to be hand fed.

Some weeks back he had to call in the vet to have her put down. Well, she was 38 years old. The vet expressed surprise at her longevity saying it was a testament to all the love and care she had received. Still Michael would not have budgeted for the cost of the excavator, nor the sorrow. It had to be a home burial. Michael would not have had it any other way.

A couple of weeks later he said goodbye to one of his much-loved steers. Another vet visit, but this time a bit of good fortune. A nearby knackery collected the old bony body free of charge. Those two steers had been together for 10 years, the horses longer, and Michael said the separation anguish for both survivors was palpable and very moving.

We hope next week’s morning tea break brings forth brighter news. 

November 21, 2015
​ 
MY FATHER was a quiet man. Not shy, just quiet. His four brothers (there were two sisters) said he was the lesser sportsman of the family but with the sharpest mind. He and three of his brothers won scholarships to Melbourne Uni. The fifth remained at home in Ballarat to assist his father in the family plumbing business. He was my favourite. He was boisterous and burly and threw himself with great gusto into the rowdy games his nephews and nieces devised at family gatherings.

I only retain fragments of memory of my father. Fishing days, help with the darkness of maths homework, being there in the thin crowd to watch my sporting achievements, especially the day I took a towering mark in the goal square for the under 15s only to watch Simon Price grab my “clearing” kick and send it sailing back over my head. Does humiliation ever fade?

My father told me once that when he was born chewing gum had not been invented, or at least hadn't reached Ballarat. I've never checked that out but then I never questioned my dad. During the war years he gave up smoking so my mother could have his ration of cigarettes, the packets doled out by our downtown barber Mr Belaire. Dad did not live long enough to appreciate the irony of his sacrifice.

I often wonder how he would cope with the world today if given the chance to revisit. Technology has moved on at lightning speed. Automatic transmission and remote locking, smart phones, keyhole surgery.

All these thoughts of advanced technology tumbled in upon me when my partner insisted that I get an expert in to sort out the mysterious logic of my computer software. She was getting a bit impatient with my constant cries for help.
 
Some 25 years ago when a group of us teachers were told to attend computer training for beginners, Frank and I, two of the oldest and slower ones, walked out early, showing our frustration with appropriate loud slamming of doors. We were letting the world know our temperaments were not suited to embracing the ether peripheries of the computer world.  Weeks later we were enrolled in a second course with the assurance that this time we would make it to the promised land. Once again doors slammed.

So it was to be many years later when a friend recognised my untapped talent and led me by the hand into the misty world of computers.
 
Last week during his afternoon visit, my computer expert took me down many new and bewildering paths and I was soon struggling to keep up. Now as I look at this screen before me displaying 51 icons (is that the term for them?) I realise I understand the function of maybe eight. The rest I leave well alone. In the past I have signed up for a membership to a massage parlour, a dating service and cancelled the house insurance.
 
As for that scary bit when I am told to type in my password I'm never too sure which one to use as I keep on making up smarter and more complex ones.

Still I can send and receive emails, ask Google some curly questions and fool around with YouTube.

If  Dad were to come back and visit one day – and who's to say in this ever-changing world of ours that he won't – I could show him a thing or two that would make him very proud.

August 15, 2015

THERE is an unwritten law in our house that the evening dishes remain in the sink until the next morning. For me the benefits are twofold. The night time meal signals the close of day and is not to be invaded by additional toil and the following morning wash up becomes my bird watching time.

Our kitchen window looks out onto a large and largely unkempt garden that at this time of year is left to have its rambling way. Over the years this part of the garden has become a popular playground for many bird species and has been made even more attractive to them by having bird baths placed in predator safe open areas. By the time the dishes are done I would have usually listed at least six different breeds.

Several mornings back, as my attention was drawn from the garden back to the suds, a bird thudded into the window with frightening force. I am sure the window was still quivering  as l raised my gaze but to my amazement it was still intact.  Years earlier I had sat in the lounge room of a Riverina farm house when a racing pigeon smashed through the window and landed dead at our feet. Our house is mid fifties by birth and as such the glass is much thinner than that allowed by todays building regulations.  I think there is little doubt that our victim, like the pigeon, was being pursued. They were flying into a never-ending landscape. How were they to know it was merely a reflection.

Outside a crimson rosella, its soft breast feathers drifting down in a cloud of pinks and greys. Eyes still open and still breathing its head lolling at an awkward angle. You could tell it had only a short time left. I went to the wood heap for the axe. 

My mind pictured the development stages this dying creature had passed through.  The pure white egg nestling in the deep hollow of a tree. The hatching, the growth, the everyday battle to survive. That first flight, and now this, the last flight, the fatal headlong collision into an illusion.

The next day the gentlest of thuds at the glass door and there lay this beautifully feathered red-browed firetail, wide eyed but with that vacant stunned stare. Still such a tiny and delicate wee thing one would wonder at its chance of survival. I cupped it in my hands to offer warmth then placed it in a shoe box lined with one of my partners possum fur socks and moved it around to the sunny and protected side of the house. 

Charlie Bones, our pint-sized guard dog, came over and had a gentle sniff until the possum sock owner yelled at him. The firetail was still there 20 minutes later and although it was sort of sitting up now we were not holding out much hope. Even a broken wing would mean the end. Suddenly it was up and away taking to the air with an impressive burst of speed, flying low and true through the orchard without so much as a by your leave. A miracle bundle of red and olive as it disappeared behind the citrus trees. 

I figure that we get up to a dozen similar accidents a year though rarely fatal. Last month a thornbill hit hard and was dead on impact. We buried him at the base of a large stone bird bath. Not sure I would have done that for a magpie or a raven. The smaller they are the more our hearts bleed.

So now we have hung up a loopy banner of Tibetan prayer flags hoping that may protect by breaking up the reflection of what must appear to them a garden yet to be explored or a flight path to safety. 

COMMENTS
August 26, 2015
A week late but thank you to Bob Middleton for another wonderful tale of The Final Flight.  We have a variety of birds that visit us most days and never tire of watching their antics.  I just love how Bob weaves his magic in his story-telling and this tale was as mesmerising as the tale about the breeders of the roosters.  Thank you Bob for another brilliant story and your awesome talent in portraying a good yarn.  A great way to start the day.  I love the philosophy of dishes remaining until the next day.   
Joy Button, Coronet Bay

July 18, 2015

OUR dog Charlie, the one who charmed his way out of the lost dogs home, has a close relationship with the Loch footy oval. He takes me there at least twice a week to do laps and meet up with some old friends and check out the oak trees that surround the oval. 

The reserve is almost circled by these ancient oaks that offer kind shelter on rainy mornings and, with the surrounding hills and the river, they form a natural amphitheatre that produces an atmosphere of its own making. 

When l read through the history of this ground, I can understand why some locals still refer to it as “The Footy Oval”. Your imagination can pick up the noise of the crowds as you walk around the field. I have reliable confirmation that the last game was played back in 1993. Pat Kennedy was working on renovating the pavilion when Charlie and I strolled by some weeks ago. He says he was out there playing in that final match, so he would know. 

This year some wise people got together and entered three teams in the Warragul & District Competition so footy is back. Poowong-Loch now fields an under 10, under 12 and under 14 team. They have not had a lot of impact on the scoreboard so far but George Elton, president of the Memorial Reserve Committee (Loch  Memorial Reserve is the oval’s official name), tells me the under 14s had some success in the early part of the season. But it’s early days yet, let’s give the lads time. 

The oval has been recently equipped with goal posts and guard rails and the reserve committee has organised and paid for a pavilion upgrade.  The light towers that grace the oval were built back in 1974. Cricket has been a constant summer sport here so it’s a healthy and welcome trend to see the return of junior football. 

The community raised the funds to put a suspension bridge over Allsop River.
As I look through Garry Knox's recorded history of the oval, Reserved Space, I’m reminded how country communities work together. The development and maintenance of this ground down through the years is the work of many dedicated groups and individuals. The features and amenities they have achieved are quite astounding. Apart from the club rooms, there are cricket nets, tennis courts, a soccer practice area, a large covered barbecue gazebo and camping facilities. One special feature is the pedestrian suspension bridge which sways 40 feet above the Allsop River bed. 

Included in Garry Knox’s book is a section about Loch, Stock and Barrel, a successful fund-raising group that purchased a tractor and mower for the reserve, financed clubroom renovations and donated towards the building of the pedestrian suspension bridge. The reserve benefited to the tune of $46,000.  

The Loch, Stock and Barrel group sound a lively lot. There is a story told that committee member Carolyn Wilshaw took an injured man to hospital one Sunday. In return, she received flowers which led to marriage two years later. 

At one of their many social gatherings, the band put a call out on the microphone to get committee people on to the stage to stop people throwing beer. The committee were near the stage and it turned out they were the ones throwing the beer. But my favourite is the one of an unnamed committee person body surfing down the marquee on left-over bags of coleslaw.   

I have heard that nudity was always guaranteed on a Sunday morning. What were they doing? Diving into the Allsop River? 

It is a sobering experience to walk the perimeter of these grounds. Fifteen oak trees partially surround the oval, each with a plaque dedicated to World War II soldiers to whom (along with WWI soldiers) the Loch Memorial Reserve is dedicated. All but three lost their lives while still in their 20s.  

There are just two oaks on the eastern side of the oval which I like to think of as the Coster-Pedder wing. One is dedicated to Jack Coster, shot down over Germany in 1945. The other to Ernie Pedder who died on the Kokoda Track in 1943. Both were aged 20. 

Behind the gazebo are a line of oaks, two of them dedicated to two airmen of the RAAF. Both are listed as J. Brock and both lost their life in 1943. For a while I wondered why the duplication but looking closer saw that dates and service numbers did not match. They were brothers. 

Part of a family of six, John (Jack) Brock, aged 23, lost his life when the aircraft he was in disappeared over Cologne after dropping flares. His elder brother James (Ray) Brock was killed in an aircraft accident in Geraldton, WA. The story has it he was on a flight from Darwin to Geraldton. On arrival they had to circle for some time waiting for airport landing strip lights to be turned on. The plane ran out of fuel, six of the crew were killed while two escaped injury. Their plaques reveal they were born on the same day three years apart and died on the same day of the month four months apart. 

Every day that Charlie and I visit, I become more fluent in the language of war and its madness. But mixed in with the sorrow, there is also a feeling of peace to be found here. Walking around the Loch Memorial Reserve can do that to you.      

COMMENTS
Yes, all those stories were true.  Loch Stock and Barrel was started as a bachelor and spinsters ball to raise money to improve facilities at the rec reserve. There was always a little bit of "mischief " but never anything too serious. In today's politically correct world of rules and regulations it probably wouldn't be allowed by the relevant authorities. It's so hard for the young ones today to have a "good time". Some their fault, some society's. And how hard is it to try and raise money for worthy causes nowadays. We are doing our best to make "life" a little too hard for every body. Such a shame!
Andy Thomas

February 14, 2015

STEPPING into Kathy West’s home in Wonthaggi is like stepping into a private art gallery. The walls are monochromatic white and the work displayed is vivid, eye catching and exclusively Kathy West. The house interior is minimalistic, inviting and seemingly purpose built for displaying her work. 

How can this be? When Kathy chose the land and built the house 10 years ago, aged 75, she had not begun to paint seriously.

“Why Wonthaggi” I ask. She tells me she looked at Phillip Island during its quieter moments and, being bred in the Blue Mountain country of NSW, also considered the hills of Leongatha, but she kept coming back to Wonthaggi. “I was very much influenced by the friendliness of the people, and the town catered for all my current and future needs.”

Kathy had already planned the next stage of her life. She knew she wanted to paint and as soon as she settled in she joined the Bass Coast Arts Society. When the treasurer’s position became vacant she put up her hand.  Being a newcomer, she saw it as a way to become more involved and get better acquainted with other artists.

Kathy West returned to art after a lifetime of working.
A Reflection of a New Passion:  A retrospective exhibition of paintings by Kathy West, ArtSpace Wonthaggi Gallery,  February 12-March 9. 
It becomes clear that she is admirably qualified to carry out these duties. It was also apparent that her creative side was not something that came late into her life; her appreciation of form and colour was there from a very early age.  

As we talk, her previous life in textiles and fashion design gradually unfolds. On leaving school, she pursued her love of art by enrolling in a dress designing course at the prestigious Sydney Technical College. The very same that Margaret Olley went to, she tells me with some pride at the distant connection.
 
When her husband was posted from Canberra to Malaysia, she began working there with a small company designing dresses from batik fabrics, which were exported to Harrods and New York outlets. Her husband’s career then took them to Melbourne, a move they made with considerable apprehension, but the family was quickly won over by their new city. 

tWith typical enthusiasm, Kathy bought a factory in Little Bourke Street. She made dresses from fabric supplied by firms and produced garments of her own design as well as to patterns supplied by different companies. Putting her managerial skills to good use, her business grew to employ a staff of twenty.

​On returning to Canberra, she continued her love of design and fashion after a stint in selling real estate.  When she saw a sign in the window of a Maggie Shepherd dress shop looking for a cutter, she applied for the position. ”I often passed this shop and admired their excellent eye for colour and creativity but the dresses were badly finished. Another weakness with the business, I found, was they had no costing system. We were able to correct both.” Eventually Maggie Shepherd opened her chain of shops in capital cities throughout Australia and the US.Our conversation swings us back to Wonthaggi and this latest chapter of her life. On Sunday, her first exhibition of paintings will be launched at the Artspace Gallery.

​Well-known local artist Dennis Leversha encouraged Kathy to train under Ken Griffiths. “I was Ken’s first pupil” she says. “He and his wife Karen were renovating the 100-year-old hotel at South Dudley where the classes were held. I studied with him for four years.”  

While Ken encourages his students to develop their own style and technique, the learning environment shows up in many of her paintings. The old hotel is obviously very atmospheric. In some of her work you can see the influence of its interior and in others her past association with the theatre of fashion parades. 

I am drawn to a painting showing a group of nuns seemingly floating and swaying above a cowering male figure.  The interior of the pub forms the striking backdrop.  I find myself wondering what crime this man has done. Does he deserve my sympathy? 

A signature theme of her work to this stage could be referred to as reflections in a bubble.  Distorted figures and scenes are mirrored back to the viewer carrying with them a third-dimensional sense of depth and movement. 

I am filled with wonder at Kathy’s pursuit of colour and beauty and the way she fills her days with so much purpose. I have been talking to a remarkable woman.

October 4, 2014

WE CAME to live in Jeetho West, on the outskirts of Loch, in 2007 as the Loch–Bena bypass was being completed.  Hard to imagine now all that highway traffic flowing through this quiet and gentle village.  Of course there have been changes in Loch over those past years, some for the better, some not so.

During these short years, the Post Office has gone and the Royal Hotel, better known as Syb’s place, has closed.  How we miss that good food and weekend entertainment. The famous Quilting Barn is smaller now, and in our time the general store has changed hands four times and is currently closed. 

The old Union Bank, now the Loch Distillery.
Yet Loch has a staunch heart. It picks itself up and moves on. Gift and antique shops attract weekend visitors, good coffee is to be found in its several cafes, the popular Cosy Cafe has taken over the mail service. The Gilded Lily Restaurant in its intimate setting is keeping us guessing as to its future and there is talk that the new owner of the old post office building may soon open it as a gallery. 

Standing at the eastern end of town is the old Union Bank building. I doubt if you would miss it as you drive through to rejoin the highway but the adjoining old butcher shop nestling in its shadow could go unnoticed. This would be a pity for today they are brothers in arms. 

The Loch Brewery and Distillery now occupy the premises. The distillery stands where deposits and withdrawals were once conducted and the brewing of old style English beer takes place where locals in bygone years bought their joint for the weekend roast.


The hand-beaten copper distillers are a feature of the bar.

The stainless steel beer brewing vats were made by a Leongatha company experienced in manufacturing milk vats.

Heat extracts the sugars from the malt in a timber-encased vat before the beer is transferred to the uninsulated cool tank to finish brewing.This is the dream and long-held ambition that has become a reality for owners Craig Johnson and his partner Melinda Davies and they are well equipped for their new enterprise.

Craig has spent many years in Melbourne as operations manager for a large trucking firm and Mel has experience in sales and marketing. Mel is third generation of Tarwin Lower heritage so in a sense she has returned to her homeland.

After months of searching Craig still seems knocked out by their good fortune at finding the old bank, which so perfectly fits their needs.

“Had we settled for a suitable building out of a town we would have had to provide food and coffee, something we did not wish to do. Here, situated in the village, we can concentrate on what we do best.” 

He says he has crawled all over the bank from vault to roof top and is amazed at the craftsmanship that has gone into its design and structural strength. The walls are six bricks in thickness.

Craig has honed his skills as a brewer over the years and spent some time in the UK visiting similar-sized breweries and brewery manufactures. 

“We sourced as much of the equipment as we could from local suppliers.  C&L Stainless of Leongatha made all beer brewing vats to our specifications using their vast experience in manufacturing for the dairy industry.”

The copper distillery equipment was not available locally so was shipped out from England. All three copper distillers were hand beaten in Portugal.

The old butcher shop with its insulated walls and concrete floor seems as if purpose-built for a brewery.    It has the stark look of an operating theatre, with stainless steel tanks and complex plumbing, but the sweet smells of yeasts and malts rapidly override first impressions. This is where the magic happens.  

“The brewing takes only a day” says Craig, “but the fermenting and conditioning takes between 4 to 6 weeks before the beer is ready for drinking. The beer is completely natural without being filtered or pasteurised and is naturally carbonated by secondary bottle fermentation. All the grain we use is milled in a small electric roller made in Melbourne.” 

I ask why one of the vats is encased in timber and am told that this is where the brewing takes place. Here heat is used to extract the sugars from the malt prior to the brew being transferred to the uninsulated cool tank. 

We walk over to the distillery in the old bank building . distillers make a warm and interesting display in the bar. They remind me of scenes from Dr Who with their strange bulbous shapes and complex pipes and taps. They range from 100 litres to 10 litres in volume and Craig tells me they have the capacity to produce 90 litres of spirits at a time. He brings over a sample of whisky in a small bottle which is as clear as mountain stream water. The aroma is delicious. 

“Whisky takes its colour from the oak casks “ he says.  ”This sample is unoaked.” 

It is obvious that the production of single malt whisky is the first love. Gin has already been made but waits for the delivery of suitable bottles. Their whisky is a work in progress.

Returning on a sunny Grand Final Saturday to take some photos I find the bar and garden are peopled with wiser folk who will spend the day in these idyllic surroundings sharing with friends a glass or two of boutique beer. I am sorely tempted to stay awhile.

Loch Brewery & Distillery , 44 Victoria Road, Loch,  Phone 0414 590 474. Open Friday to Sunday, noon-5pm. Other times by appointment.

COMMENTS
October 4, 2014 
Thanks Bob for an absolutely outstanding story, another great read. What a wonderful place Loch is and your story encapsulates its’ beauty very well.
  Keep up the good work, can’t wait to read your next article.
Roger Clark, Grantville ​

August 16, 2014

I HAVE a home address for Neil Le Serve, the French Island mailman, but when I arrive in Corinella in fading light I realise finding his house may be more difficult than I first thought. 

I call into the general store for directions and see a large, impressive-looking launch hooked up outside. Surely no one in their right mind would have been out pleasure cruising on such a wild and chilly day. Maybe I have found my man. Bingo! Neil is inside the store. 

Neil Le Serve has been delivering the mail to French Island for 30 years. Photos: Barbara Oates
Neil Le Serve prepares for his daily postal delivery to French Island, in the background.
Minutes later we are sitting in his coastal home and I am looking out over the 3.2-kilometre stretch of dark Western Port water to his place of work.

Five days a week at 7am Neil sets out to deliver mail and occasionally heavier cargo to the Island’s residents.  He's been doing it for 30 years. “I keep two cars over there for the mail run,” Neil says, “one at the jetty and the other as a backup.” After making his regular 15 mail deliveries, he spends the rest of the day contract fencing, returning to Corinella at about 5pm.

“Been fencing ever since I gave up dairying at Bass some 30 years ago,” he says. “Took on a job at Tarwin Lower putting up 45 kilometres of fencing. Went at it non-stop, 12 hours a day working by myself. It wore me down both mentally and physically.” 

Nowadays he confines his fencing work to the island, combining it with other farm work such as spraying and building sheds.

I get the impression Neil hasn’t slowed down much. He admits to enjoying his work, never gets bored and is happiest when the weekend is once again behind him.

He has had his share of dramas over the years.  Before the days of GPS, fogs were a challenge. “When you get caught up in thick fog you tend to go round in circles. You have no idea where you are. On one occasion I ran into Snapper Rock and stuffed up the boat’s propeller.” 

Another time, he was so far off course he ran aground on a mud bank at Elizabeth Island. “I had to wait over five hours for the rising tide to get me off.”

He has had several boats since starting on the job.  His current one is purpose built at a cost of $78,000. Needless to say with that sort of outlay, it is fitted out with all the latest essential equipment. It looks more functional than comfortable.

I ask about his scariest moments.  

“Well, I got swamped a few years back.  Knew there was a squall coming, should have waited for it to pass. They don’t last long. When it hit, we were halfway across. She finished up with her nose pointed to the sky and I was sitting in water with a submerged battery and a floating fuel tank.” Somehow, he managed to get the boat turned around in the unkind sea and make it slowly back to shore. 

French Island has always been something of a mystery to me.  I know I am being fanciful but its low-lying profile seems moody; at times, almost foreboding. When I look over at it, I get the feeling it is looking back at me.

I have a grasp of its size when compared to Phillip Island but little else.  French Island is about 170 square kilometres, 70 more than its better known neighbour. 

Neil says the island residents are a good example of users of renewable energy. Since the island is without a power supply, they really have no choice. Stand-alone solar power, generators and a growing number of wind generators provide the inhabitants with electricity. 

He is genuinely pleased there are signs that more young couples are making the island their home and expresses his satisfaction that a qualified mechanic is among the new arrivals. The school, which at one time whittled down to only two students, now has 15. 

There is a strong sense of community amongst the islanders. Neil talks about its beef industry, which is the backbone of the land use (there is only one sheep farm left), farmers markets that have recently evolved, the general store and its homemade pies, the development of a vineyard and an olive grove and, to my surprise, a local cricket team.

There is pride in his voice as he lists all the island’s attributes, and justifiably so. He has every claim to being an islander, having spent more time than most over there.

It is a wet cold night as I set out to drive home and the outline of the Island has melted into the dark. 

Foreboding?  After talking to Neil maybe not so much. 

When I reach to turn on the car heater, I think of Neil launching his boat in the early hours of tomorrow morning. The island’s mail delivery is in good hands. 

COMMENTS
Thanks Bob, I really enjoyed your rare glimpse into French Island through Neil's story. I took the ferry there from Cowes with friends a couple of years ago.  We had all lived at Phillip Island for ages and had never been. It was a fabulous day.  Surprisingly different from Phillip Island - the landscape, the vegetation, the whole feel of the place.  Your story was a happy reminder of how special it is.
Linda Cuttriss, Ventnor

​We shouldn’t have to remind the Minister for the Environment that he is in office to protect our natural treasures, writes Bob Middleton.

July 26, 2014

I AM asking myself what we are doing here outside Greg Hunt's electorate office in Hastings on this wintery Friday afternoon.

By my head count, we are a gathering of some 120 and we’re here to remind the Minister for the Environment that he is in office to protect, among other things, our Great Barrier Reef, not to allow people to trash it. 

It's unthinkable that we should have to do this. 
GetUp spokesman Sam Regester is down from Sydney for the occasion. He welcomes us and, with Ben Pearson of Greenpeace, proceeds to outline the horror story. 

Adani Mining - Coal Mines Company India proposes to develop a coal mine in the north Galilee Basin, the Carmichael Mine, which will produce an estimated 60 million tonnes of coal a year.

To do so, Adani needs to dredge and dump an estimated three million tonnes of sludge and sand onto the reef to allow thousands of coal ships access to the world's biggest coal port on the coastline. The mine will have an operating life of about 90 years.
Sam tells us that last time Adani built a port it destroyed the very conservation area it promised to protect. 

Another investigation by the anti-corruption ombudsman of Karnataka, a state in India, found Adani was involved in large-scale illegal exports of iron ore, resulting in "huge" economic losses to the government. The report noted: "The officials of Port Department, Customs, Police, KSPCB, CRZ, Mines, Local politicians and others are involved in receiving the bribe money from M/s. Adani Enterprises."

Doesn’t sound much of a recommendation, does it.

The law states the Minister may consider the history of the proponent, but does not have to. The sad part is that in giving his first-round approval Minister Hunt chose not to do so.

Mr Hunt wasn’t present yesterday. Sam tells us that a member of his staff may be out to address the group and, we presume, to answer questions. This doesn't happen. 

Esther Gleixner from Flinders bravely volunteers to don the Nemo suit for the photo shoot. The head piece comes without eye slits so Nemo has to be led gently by the fin into the front row.

After an hour the rally comes to an end with a robust group chant of “SAVE OUR REEF” and Sam re-enters Mr Hunt's office to seek additional information.

Meanwhile, the Minister continues to ponder his decision. In the next week the MP for Flinders is due to approve or reject Adani's Carmichael Mine. 

His finger is hovering over the button. 
​

June 7, 2014

THE crime should fit the penalty. Well, that's my theory.

Look at it this way. You know you’re going to get a hiding if you raid the biscuit bin and get caught so don't take two or three, nick the lot. That makes the crime worthy of the punishment.

My earliest recollections of a serious punishment are sunrise sharp but I have no memory of the crime. It was at Ripponlea State School when we were living in East St Kilda, and I must have been about nine or ten at the time.

Ripponlea State had a strict rule of gender segregation. The boys’ play yard was on one side of the school building and the girls’ on the other. This massive red brick building (well, it seemed massive to me at the time) acted as the great wall of separation. I cannot recall cyclone fencing or razor wire being in place. I think the sheer horror of being caught fraternising with girls was enough to keep us boys under self-regulation.

I can only guess at my crime: maybe not owning up to a misdemeanour or perhaps constant inattention. I was fascinated by pigeons and spent a great deal of time staring out windows at flocks that feasted on food scraps discarded by boys more intent on playing marbles than eating lovingly prepared lunches.

My punishment? I was to spend the afternoon with the Year 3 girls.

Three things I recall most vividly. One: I was allocated a seat next to Pamela Abbot, who happened to run a close second to my dreams about pigeons. The cruellest of coincidences, or was it? Two: at afternoon play time I was swamped by girls who kindly tried to include me in their games and relieve my embarrassment. Three: despite their good intentions I spent the entire time in abject misery. I wonder if my teacher had any idea how severe was the judgement handed down that day.

My parents told me at an early age that telling lies was the biggest sin. Even fibs were frowned upon. Of course most of my lies were really fibs. Then there were whoppers, which I placed somewhere between fibs and lies.

The way I figured it a fib is a lie devoid of malice. Our dog Charlie is an excellent exponent of the fib. That innocent look of "Who, me!" when we find a grubby bone tucked into the back of the couch. The whopper is commonly employed by fishermen when describing the size of the fish they may or may not have been caught yesterday and is more artful.

But a lie – ah, now that is something else altogether. That puts you in the big time.
If you try one of those in a court of law, you may well finish up in the slammer for committing perjury. Most of us cite politicians as experts in the employment of the lie, probably just ahead of used car salesmen. Sure, they break promises they know they cannot keep, then sanctify their decisions because the end justifies the means.

Machiavelli said that if rulers accepted that their every action must pass moral scrutiny, they would without fail be defeated by an opponent who submitted to no such moral test. So, for many politicians, the lie is a survival tool. We should know not to put too much trust in what they say or take them seriously.

But, like fibs and whoppers, some lies are acceptable, forgivable and even necessary.
In Lars von Trier's 2011 film Melancholia, a planet is heading towards Earth and we are about to be obliterated. The final scene is of a mother and her sister. They build a skeletal stick house for their small boy to make him feel secure, move one of the sticks as if closing a door and sit down in a circle holding hands to await the end.

For the boy it is a matter of trust – and it is a beautiful lie.

April 5, 2014

LUTHIER. There's a word that rolls off the tongue. It has a sound all of its own, medieval and romantic. 

The Macquarie Dictionary tells us a luthier is “a maker of lutes, and of other stringed instruments, as viols, violins, etc”. 

Luthier and piano tuner Jonathan Parise
Luthiers are not to be found down every cobble-stoned lane; in fact, they are a very rare breed. Just ask any string instrument owner seeking someone with the skill to set up, repair or custom-build a guitar or mandolin. 

In my search for a luthier, a local musician comes to my aid and I find myself in the Inverloch home of Jonathan and Trilby Parise.  I am ushered into Jonathan’s crowded workshop where I sit myself down on a well-worn stool decorated with guitars and words that inform me that D’Addario Guitar Strings are The Player’s Choice. 


Some of the electric guitars (Fender Stratocaster, Fender Telecaster, Gibson Les Paul, Gibson Gary Moore) that Jonathan has maintained and repaired for local musos.

Jonathan recently replaced the entire ebony fingerboard on this double bass by rebuilding a new one from a rough piece of ebony.

He had to remove the neck from this 1970s Maton acoustic guitar to reset the position.The walls are covered with racks of tools of the trade and laid out on a work bench are the skeletal innards of a piano in the process of restoration.  There is a wall display of pick guards in a variety of patterns and colours.  “The earlier material was tortoise shell but today it has been replaced by plastic,” Jonathan informs me.  

Behind a work bench is a double bass with a recently replaced finger board made of ebony. “The piece of ebony alone cost $600 and then I had to shape and finish it from the rough,” he says.  

Jonathan Parise is a luthier and piano tuner technician, as was his father and his father's father before him.  His grandfather started building guitars more than 60 years ago in his home town in the south of Italy. 

Jonathan’s family come from Prato, Italy, a Tuscan city 18 kilometres from Florence, with roots firmly embedded in the world of music.  He mentions the links with Cremona, just to the north, the home of Stradivari, the most influential violin maker in the industry. 

"There are hundreds of businesses and shops there building and repairing violins and guitars," he says, with the quiet pride of one who is part of an ancient tradition.  

At the age of 14, he found himself swept up into the family business, making, repairing and fine-tuning musical instruments. From that point, his destiny was set. 

In 2001, Monash University came to Prato and with it came Trilby Chapman of Inverloch.  She was to become Jonathan's wife not many years later.

Ten years ago, they decided to make Melbourne their home so father and son agreed to divide their business and go their separate ways. 

For Jonathan, the transition was not easy. He found the work of tuning pianos in homes and music retail shops uninspiring, so he and Trilby went back to Italy. 

Eventually they took the plunge and returned to Trilby’s home town of Inverloch. “It was all open paddocks and cows,” Jonathan says.  “Where were the pianos, where was the work? It took me years to get used to it.”

But even in what Jonathan refers to as a dying profession he is kept busy.  His piano-tuning work takes him throughout Gippsland. He is in regular contact with his father who cannot comprehend the distances his son travels in this strange country. 

To fit in his work commitments he has to carefully structure his week, setting days aside for piano tuning and time to devote to instrument repairs. In the future, he hopes to find time to create and build his own personal style of guitars.  

He has settled comfortably into his adopted country but you get the sense there is still more to be achieved; that there remain parts of the skills learnt in the Italian traditions that are yet to be explored and developed. 

The opportunity to do that may still be a while off.  Trilby, who works in ceramics, is a qualified teacher with a diploma in education but for now she is fully occupied with raising their two girls, Bonnie and Polly, with help from the family dog Charlie. 

In the meanwhile, there are all those pianos to tune. 

Contact Jonathan Parise at jparise@bigpond.com, 5674 2597 or 0438 384 887.

By Bob Middleton

WHEN I heard someone say he was giving ukulele lessons to a 70-year-old who wanted to bring along his 90-year-old mate for lessons, I flexed my arthritic fingers and revived my Jimi Hendrix fantasies.

This piece of unintended encouragement came straight from the teacher's mouth some time back as a group of us settled in at the Meeniyan Hall waiting for Iris Dement to strut her stuff.

The wonder of it all is the number of musicians whose path I've crossed since moving down to the Bass Coast. Now I am no longer surprised when I hear that our carpenter, our electrician and our solar panel man are all playing in bands when the sun goes down.

So I took it in my stride when I found myself sitting beside West Creek guitarist Ian McMullan that Meeniyan evening. The big advantage of such good fortune is getting the inside information on the intricacies of the musical performance as it unfolds. What sort of guitar is Iris using? Why the second guitar resting there on stage? How does it differ? Don't you wish you were sitting at another table? 

Ian treats my curiosity with tolerance. Perhaps I should join up for some lessons. That would send the average age of the class soaring to new heights.

Around these parts, you’re the oddball if you don't write, sing or play a musical instrument. The more I listen and talk to our local musicians, the more fascinated and inquisitive I become.

Shane Simpson, lead guitarist with the long-gone Amear Beg, has patiently broadened my awareness of the makes and models of guitars, banjos and mandolins, and told me all there is to know about Dobros. He even lent me the book.

I found the word Dobro wasn't even in the Macquarie Dictionary. Well, all right, that was before I knew how to find it on the internet, but Shane told me first. 

He brings colourful names to life. Gibson guitars called Firebird, Flying V, Sunburst and the Fender Telecaster and Stratocaster. Talks about famous guitarists who favour the different types and models. The likes of Mark Knopfler, Eric Clapton, Chet Atkins, Jimi Hendrix and our own famous Swan Hill boy Bruce Mathiske. Haven't heard of him? Check him out on YouTube.

There's Rob Wilson (Barbeque Bob and The Ring of Fire)and his White Falcon Gretsch guitar who explained to me all about the middle eight (commonly: 1st verse - chorus, 2nd verse - chorus, middle eight - chorus) which happens in the middle of a song, the length of which is generally eight bars. I’m not sure if I have really got a handle on this bit yet but hear it is common in most of the Beatles’ songs. If, as I am told, it is a departure from the home key, a different melody from the rest of the song, the Neville Brother’s Yellow Moon is a good example.

There's Larry Hills, our own composer and chorale director, who answers my questions about major and minor keys and the structure of twelve bar blues; Wonthaggi’s John Coldebella who plays acoustic guitar and writes songs that can sweep you from joy to tears in a chord beat; the duo of Judy John (mandolin) and Carol Robinson (guitar) who make such beautiful sounds are somewhat elusive but catch them if you can; and the Bass Coast Pickers (Mary and Michael Whelan and Alison Chapman), who came to my attention at a party only last week. By popular request, they ended up playing a Pete Seeger bracket that made it hard not to tap the toes and sing along. 

The local talent is deep and wall to wall. Living in the burbs of Melbourne, we knew nothing like it.

There was a time when I pinched my teenage son’s Maton and signed up for a CAE holiday course in guitar for beginners. That was all of 40 years ago. When they started to talk about split chords, the Maton and I packed up and went home. 

Learning to play a musical instrument is as alien to me as learning to speak Mandarin but it sure would sound better. Then again, maybe not.

October 13, 2013

LYING in bed of a morning, with a cup of tea and a volume of Alice Munro short stories, I have been distracted by the antics of a pair of wrens. Both similarly feathered in interesting but not spectacular shades of brown. 

Sisters? No, from their antics they seemed more than just good friends. 
Their play was a form of hopscotch with one taking great delight in jumping back and forth over the other, occasionally landing fleetingly on her back ( I really had no idea who was who for they appeared identical) then settling back into their cosy shoulder-to-shoulder position. 

They were in the habit of launching off from the decking rail and gently engaging with the window pane. At first I thought they were picking off insects but then realised they were attacking their own images as many small birds do as with reflections in wing mirrors on cars. (I’ve put a sock on our car mirrors in this mad season to protect birds that are claiming territorial rights.) 

In this case pulling down the bedroom blind was of no help as it only enhanced their reflection. Besides, that would leave me with just Alice and no side show. 
Then slowly over the weeks a small patch of blue became visible on the hopscotcher and over several days this developed into the splendid full regimental dress of the superb blue wren. 

They are still here and still deciding where to build their home. I do wish they would get on with it so I can return to my reading but the show goes on.

Some friends of mine went off to Rhyll yesterday on a tour of selected properties. The theme was botanical, not bird watching, with a visit to several sites. Each entailed a degree of walking so I excused myself. One property they visited was that of John Clarke's, he of TV fame. He had an interesting story about birds that I hope he would not mind me repeating.

He had witnessed what he thought was a swamp harrier circling high above carrying its kill. John thought a rabbit. 

He watched as another hawk ascended in that spiral way they do and, after a few rapid passes, successfully, it seemed to him, forced the hunter to drop its catch from directly above the aggressor. The bully folded its wings and dived down, catching the rabbit in mid air.

John's inquiring mind prompted him to contact a friend knowledgeable in the ways of birds of prey. His friend said it was not an act of thieving as John had assumed but the way of harriers during the breeding season.

Seems that the male doing the hunting for the family must hand  over the rewards for the female to take back to the nest. He is not allowed into the family home; it's his job to provide for the missus and the brood. 

In the past, I have worked with men who traditionally handed over their wages to their spouses and in return received their week’s allowance. 

I hope our wrens come to a better agreement than this.   

September 28, 2013

THE magazine was lying on the bench in the bus shelter.  A Reader’s Digest, in “as new condition”, as a car salesman might say. Was it forgotten or left there to find a new owner? Well, I rose to the occasion and took it with me on my bus ride. Either the trip was short or I read slowly but by journey’s end I had finished only one article. 

That was 30 years ago but the story stays with me still. The article was an expose of the waste and recycling industry. It suggested that much of what we believed was being returned to a useful life was actually being buried with the rest of our waste. I wonder if things have changed for the better over those 30 years.

Whenever I take recyclables to the Grantville transfer station I question if maybe it is all just a big con, perhaps a ploy by Big Brother to make us feel good.  

POEM FOR THE WEEK
By Michael Leunig 
(from a failing memory)    
The road to home is lined with      
    lovely eucalypts and wattles
And plastic bags and paper cups and 
    empty cans and bottles*
A tribute to the efforts of the little Aussie 
    dumper    
Who ought to have it gathered up and 
    shoved right up his jumper.
* I know this line is NQR.

I have grounds for my cynicism. In earlier times, when Des was in charge of the tip, bottles were sorted out into three groups, clear, green, and brown, and Des made sure you got it right. They were then thrown into 44-gallon drums and Des would come out when things were quiet and scrunch each drum into pulp with this big iron manual tamper. Today you chuck all your glass and anything that remotely resembles plastic into one large skip. It is then transported somewhere else to be sorted. Why do they do that?? Why not keep it separate in the first place?

So I speak to a friend of mine who worked off and on for some years at the Wonthaggi recycling depot hand-sorting on a conveyor belt with seven others. Truckloads of recyclable waste was picked up in wheely bins and tipped out onto a concrete slab, then scooped up and fed onto the belt.  

He tells me the newer trucks are fitted with CCTV so the driver can check for any wrong disposal of rubbish as it enters the truck. The contents of those bins sometimes beggar belief. Not just plastic shopping bags, which we are told to put in the garbage bin, but dead cats and dogs, road kill, foul soiled clothing, kitty litter by the bucket load; the list goes on. Warnings and fines to the relevant household generally follow. But who is to say the pile of illegal muck in your bin wasn’t put there by some midnight traveller as your bin awaited an early morning pickup?   

My friend believes the belt speed made it nigh impossible to sort effectively. The sorters were instructed to stop the belt only if syringes were spotted. A pretty tough ask since the rubbish is mounded up high. What lies below doesn’t bear thinking about. In his opinion the plant is obsolete in equipment and size, the sorting system impractical and there are no checks and balances in place. My friend is an intelligent person and I give credit to his judgement.

Although the shire sends residents an annual calendar with pickup dates and guidelines for separating rubbish, many ignore the instructions.

Still the main question remains with me: why do we need so much packaging in the first place? How can we shop in such a way as to reduce it? What happened to the idea for supermarkets to charge for plastic bags to reduce our reliance on them?

In Maude Barlow’s book Blue Covenant (2007), she refers to plastic bottles made of polyethylene terephthalate (PET) derived from crude oil and other nasty chemicals that can leach from bottles into ground water. She says that, worldwide, 2.7 million tons of PET is used every year just for bottled water. Around the world, fewer than 5 per cent of plastic bottles are recycled. The remaining 95 per cent create mountains of garbage and foul our waterways.

 It has always been a mystery to me how this industry ever got a hold on us. So many people carry these bottles around daily as if heading out to the Simpson Desert for a lunch date. It has become a fashion statement for many and that’s just how the bottled water industry likes it. How gullible are we?

South Australia, which has a container deposit system, recovers 85 per cent of glass soft drink bottles and 74 per cent of PET bottles against a national average of 36 per cent for both. Containers subject to a deposit account for less than 1 per cent of total litter in South Australia. So why don’t the rest of our states legislate to have one? 

As a society we have two problems here and they are challenging ones: the first is how to avoid/reduce the packaging; the second is how to effectively recycle the packaging we cannot avoid. 

Right now we are not very good at either. We need to find a better solution than just digging more holes.   

September 14, 2013

IT’S been a week of mind-numbing politics, leaving many of us searching for hope and inspiration. While I wait anxiously to see what this new team will come up with, I have toyed with my ideal list of politicians were they all available and at the top of their game. A sort of team of the century. 

First it was going to be a cricket eleven with maybe a Clive Palmer as 12th man to carry the drinks but I came up short of numbers. So I have settled on a netball team of seven.

Here it is then, with reasons why they made my list.

Tony Windsor: Don Watson, writing in The Monthly on Windsor’s departure put it in a nutshell: “You were a good politician: good enough to be the measure of what’s missing in modern politics.”

Petro Georgiou: Forgive him his lack of flair. Among much good, he championed decent treatment of asylum seekers, treading fearlessly on party members’ toes for his beliefs, thereby giving many of us belief in justice along the way.

Gough Whitlam: Gave us so much hope. Who could not be inspired by the changes he made? Eliminated military conscription and the death penalty, introduced universal health care, fee-free university education and so much more. 
​
Bob Brown: A politician of unwavering principle who for 16 years fought our fight against environmental vandalism. If in doubt, go and see the Franklin River and give thanks.

Tanya Plibersek: In keeping with the sporting theme, a great player now and her best is yet to come. Articulate, caring, dedicated, super smart. Dismiss Bob Hawke’s recent comments on her leadership suitability. I admire Bob for what he was back then, not what he is today.

Paul Keating: The kind of visionary who made me realise there WAS a better way. He gave us “scumbags”, eloquence and theatre in Parliament and was the catalyst for that great show, Keating the Musical.

Julia Gillard: Incredible strength under constant and cowardly attack. Given more time, she would have been a rare standout in politics.

To borrow from Bob Hawke – “Having said that, let me say this” – if only I could have a team of John Buttons. OK, so what’s your best side? 

Email comments to basscoastpost@gmail.com


COMMENTS:
September 19, 2013
Cheers, cheers and more cheers to Bob. Exactly my thoughts and I would have to add Penny Wong for all the reasons mentioned in the  comments which followed.
   Personally, I would have made Julia Gillard the team leader: how did she maintain her calm, poise  and strength under those attacks?
  It's good to know that  more people agree with  me. I felt a bit of an outsider with my admiration for her and mostly received blank stares when I pointed out her qualities ...
I must have been speaking to the wrong people, of course! Good on ye Bob, you're a champ (as always).
Hendrika Timmermans, Inverloch

September 19, 2013
Bob, I totally agree with all your choices. To make an eleven I would add: 

• John Button – for his honesty, though of course he did decimate the car and clothing and textile industries with his anti-protection ‘plans’.
• Penny Wong – for her clarity of thought and explanations and calmness under fire (if Australia were ever ready for a Chinese lesbian woman with a baby to be PM one day wouldn’t that be something?).
• Sarah Hanson-Young for her humanity,  tenacity and outspokenness on asylum seekers.
• Senator Margaret Guilfoyle, who did an outstanding job for her times in the field of child care as Minister for Social Security.

What a horrifying exercise though, to realise how few politicians spring to mind as worthy of making the team.  And of course we have to note the equal representation of women. 
Jenni Deane, Loch

September 14, 2013
I like the premise of Bob Middleton’s article but netball is a girls’ game, so I’ve named an all-women team. Female politicians are invariably set upon by the mob if they look like becoming important so my team is based more on potential than what they actually achieved.

• Julia Gillard – I’ll keep her on as captain. Imagine what she could have done with a unified team working for the common good. 
• Bronwyn Bishop – Minister of Defence. She’ll soon stop the shenanigans. 
• Carmen Lawrence – Like most of us, she made a serious error of judgement but hers was fatal. Capable and principled, in spite of her lapse. 
• Nicola Roxon – Quiet, capable, staunch. I hope she’ll be back one day to take on health or education. 
• Joan Kirner – Founder of Landcare, one of the world’s great environmental movements. I’ve conscripted her from the state team to be Environment Minister. 
• Amanda Vanstone – A great Aussie sheila and the ideal Minister of Foreign Affairs. The foreigners will be entranced. 
• Pauline Hansen – She brought out the worst in all of us: her supporters and her critics. Appoint her Minister for Indigenous Affairs and see if she can sort out the mess. No one else has been able to. 

Catherine Watson, Wonthaggi

September 15, 2013
Catherine's team is rudderless without the wonderful Natasha Stott Despoja!
Jenni Masters