How honest is history

History is often cruel. Pascoe (1) put it succinctly when he wrote, “Invaders like to kill….” My observation is that in these circumstances, we remember murderers, not their viictims. In 1839 they murdered >35 indigenous people in the early hours of a day in October on the banks of Mt Emu Creek. No first person contemporary records exist. Secondary sources recorded the evidence of these murders over a period in the months and years following. Proof, these events actually happened.

To go back to the start of my interest in this tale, I think it necessary to know why I have a developed this interest. I spent my formative years in Camperdown. My father was the curator of Gulfoyle’s (sic (2)) historic botanical gardens, and I grew up on the site. He established them in 1869 on a hill between Lake Bullen Merri and Lake Gnotuk. (3)

On a clear day from that vantage point, a Scott, like my father, could see far into the distant hills of The Grampians, (Traditionally known as Gariwerd (4) where his countrymen had settled 100 years before. Mt Emu Creek wandered its way past on its way to the sea, in the middle ground and far into the distance. The advantage of that from that prominent place we could see, and hear, almost anything that might have disturbed the peace of the countryside. For instance, on the day in 1950 a 57 day railway strike ended. We heard the hoot of the first train to run between Melbourne and Port Fairy in weeks, long before it reached a spot where it could be seen on the plains below. In summer, we saw smoke drift up from a distant fire lit to burn grass along the railway tracks.

The same would have been true for any spectator in 1839 scanning the ground below from that hillside eerie that October. The sound of gun shot is heard with clarity on a still day. When, two days later the killers returned to burn the bodies, smoke drifting into the air would have marked the spot. As the smoke rose high in the air the terrible crime they were attempting to cover was signalled far away. No class I attended mentioned aboriginal people had lived here for thousands of years. That is despite some mention, from time to time some children had been to the shores of Lake Colongulac, or Lake Condor, and bought to school a trophy stone axe they collected on the shores during a weekend visit. Although, the school displayed many souvenirs of found indigenous life.

Worse, no teacher ever mentioned the life of a terrified native woman, Bareetch Chuurneen. She survived that horrible carnage of 1839 and fled with her infant child. She is reported to have made her way to the eastern bank of Lake Bullen Merri and sought shelter at the property known as Wuuroung. (5) The teachers took not a moment of my schooling to tell what Wangegamon, another native survivor of the massacre, saw. (6) He witnessed the event from the shelter of long grass on the opposite bank of the creek. He told of the awful loss of his wife and child. He recognised the body of his wife when her body cast into the water with other the dead, but he could not find the body of his child. Wangegamon witnessed the horrible cover-up the cruel killers resorted to when they returned and burned the bodies. He also recognised the killers as they shoved burnt bones into bags and took them away.

The old man I have become does not blame his teachers entirely because I know they were following a curriculum that was possibly written in the 1930’s or earlier. The second World War saw to that. However, history curriculum has always been political, and it was never more evidently so that at present as Mr Trudge (7) sets out to change its teaching curriculum yet again.

I have grown to understand the importance of Aboriginal people as a race of survivors in a hostile world, (8) Perhaps that is why I intend to spend some of my remaining days to delve deeper into a subject of fleeting importance to textbook writers, journalists and other scribes to record the lives Bareetch Chuurnmeen, Wangegamon, Larkikok, Woreguimoni, Karn, and Benadug,. Their clans-people deserve recognition more than their killers Taylor, et al. (9)

The question is, why was the wealth of aboriginal history rarely mentioned at school? This is a question increasingly asked by other non-aboriginal people. The singer Mark Seymour has penned a new song asking the same question (13). I find a compulsion to add to this local story Professor Lyndall Ryan (10) has recorded as “Colonial Frontier Massacres Australia”. The study has been going since 2000. It has found great praise and awful criticism. The criticism of Michael Connor (11) for one, where, for instance, he called Murdering Flat a murder, not a massacre site. As if one death is more important than another. This has riled me to answer forcefully.

Wa Pan

Not so long ago I was involved in a local history project to recreate an example of a bathing box – once commonly seen on the foreshore. The boxes were removed in the 1960s, yet some remained in the neighbourhood until quite recently. After all these years none now survived, and that is why we began our project. If only we had had the skill and foresight of the Chinese architect Wang Shu we could have made something wonderful.

The difference between the town of Ningbo and Torquay are unalike, yet similar. Both places are victims of modern growth programs. For sometime the Chinese government has overseen a massive modernisation of the country. When they decide to modernise, whole districts are bulldozed. Everything in the path of development is removed and the people are rehoused in new multi-storey apartments. Here farmland is sold off, roads are formed, and much needed single story housing is built “out of ticky-tachy and they all look the same” like it says in the words of the song.

In China Wang Shu reclaimed the materials from the villages dismantled to make way for the new. In so doing he demonstrated architectural leadership because he planned and built the Ningbo History Museum from the repurposed material. He used an old Chinese technique of Wa Pan to do this.

He didn’t just recreate something old. From his imagination he materialised something new.

The former villagers now have something to remind them of the 3,000 year old village, and the people, that once lived there.

The museum is substantial. It is a building of some 30,000 sq metres. Wa Pan has been employed by builders throughout the ages. It means to repurpose existing material and to reuse it in a new way. As I say, in the western world, Romans used the same rocks as the Greeks had in ancient times. Here in Ningbo Wang Shu did the same thing where he could, but he didn’t just re use bricks from the Ming dynasty he used lots of concrete. However the concrete he used was given a unique Chinese treatment. Bamboo, a traditional building material, was used to create the formwork for the concrete. The textural shape of the bamboo became a new building texture found on the walls. The walls are not solid though because they contain fragments of old tiles and other ancient matter in their fabric.

The skills once needed to build with traditional materials was lost to the new age builders. This meant that in order for the work’s creation the tradespeople had to be taught how to use old methods to build this new museum. These new skills have proved valuable to the employees engaged.

The building created in the Yiazhou province is much more substantial than the little bathing box I was involved in recreating. In our case our little project had to meet a set of regulations that did not exist when the original beach lovers built their humble shacks from found materials. All our building has is a familiar silhouette in a garden a long way from the beach. The people of Ningbo live in a city that did not exist a few years ago yet they have examples of ancient materials and forgotten skills as a constant reminder of their lost village.

Cheese and Wine Age

Age is considered good for cheese and wine. Drinkers prefer to nibble on aged cheese and drink mature wine. Beaujolais and cottage cheese have their place. But for something special cheese aficionados prefer an aged Gruyere or Cheddar to Mascarpone. The same applies to wine. If you can afford it kudos comes from drinking an aged French chateau wine.

We struggle with old people. The walking stick, the dribble, the befuddled mind, are the archetypes that spring to mind. We have reached the period in this State even young people feel old. This is our fifth lockdown and people are fragile. It needn’t be so.

If I am, I am unaware of how you see me. The cover you see above is of a book of my recent writing. I plan to give to my grandchildren at my birthday party (if lockdown rules allow) later this month.

Finally, as an early 80th birthday present for myself I have enrolled in the course below. This should take care of lockdown ennui.

Best Laid Plans

Tom and his mate Tahlia were spending 2021 traveling around Australia, taking the long route. They were moving clockwise, using the outside of the road. Tahlia had just celebrated her 21st birthday, as had Tom. By now they understood this a vast land. You can drive for a thousand kilometres in this land and the highlight of your day is the chance to fill the fuel tank of your vehicle at a service centre. Most of these serve very unappetising fried food and little else. As, a vegan traveller, Tahlia must have gagged every time she entered one of these outposts.

Correctly, after crossing the Nullabour they turned left when they reached Norseman. And they drove their converted delivery van, now a smart camper wagon, to the beautiful city of Esperance. After days spent looking at scenery, that barely changed hours after hour crossing the continent, the water views of the seaside town are remarkably restful. Being more venturesome than this old fellow, they learned the islands offshore were easy to get to by ferry. As a result, they had a merry time at an off-shore bar where they could share travel stories with other young folk, and learned something about the mysterious road ahead.

The trip from Esperance to the capital of Western Australia one need not hurry. So they took their time visiting the wine area of Margaret River and swimming at wild ocean beaches. The great Jarrah and Karri forests, and the distant remnants of the whaling industry of Albany are only some joys one finds south of Perth. The long seaward protrusion of the Busselton Jetty was another place they visited. But the distant voices from home reminded Tahlia others would like to celebrate the significance of her twenty-first birthday back in Melbourne. A day away on the other side of the continent if you fly. So they called in favours to park “Van Morrison” in Perth and headed back home by air.

What should have been a happy home-coming break held a COVID-19 twist. Their plane had barely landed when health authorities announced Victoria had a new virulent community outbreak of the virus after over three months of being infection free. The State authority announced it would again enter lockdown that evening.

Just home, the young couple drove immediately back to the airport with a view to escape the Lockdown and resume their circumnavigation of the continent. They made phone calls to Western Australia health officials to find out if they could avoid fourteen days of enforced quarantine, as they had not been near the areas known to be infected, they simply wanted to return to their mobile home. Officialdom, being what it is, deliberated to the point of the plane’s departure time and came down with a judgement. Their home had no fixed address and the only way they could reenter the state was to do as all other Victorians must. That is it required them to enter quarantine. They sat out the Lockdown.

The reality was hard, too few in the population had been inoculated, the seven-day lockdown was extended and interstate travel banned. The outcome for Tom and Tahlia? Viruses are true egotists and they infect whomever they can.

Beryl

Beryl bounced once in the old days

rebounded for a second, third,

this final time upon the board

outstretching her muscular arms,

lengthening her growing body,

she flew upward and out into

the April air tucking her knees

to her chest tightly embracing 

legs frequently tumbling over,

straightening her body at the

final moment the trajectory 

curled toward the water in the

local swimming pool. Dr Davies watched

her gracefully enter the hole 

she drilled deep in the blue aqua. 

As coach, he suggested points to

consider on her climb to the

plank for her fourteenth encore. 

The diver and the boy cadet

were fifteen years — separated

by maturing youthful grace.

The Contest

The grudge match was settled from the church choir loft.
It had brewed for days — who made the better flier?

We required regular writing paper.
John folded his piece in half and length ways.

He took the right and left top corners
and folded them to the centreline

Increasing the angle he folded each side again
Until he had fashioned a dart with acute angles

He was satisfied when he gave a twist to the paper  
and two wings shot out at right angles from the centrefold.

I chose to tear the paper on the fold
where the larger portion became a square

With deft origami moves I folded it in two
to make a rectangle half the original size.

Folding that into two smaller squares I flattened 
Those and bought the outside corners to the centreline

Until it was the shape of a delta wing. I slipped the
discarded piece and slid it in between the delta folds

to make a tail. We stood, side by side
and threw our planes into the void.

John’s arrow shaped plane flew true — diagonally to the floor.
My ancient design flew up, dived sharply and gracefully 

glided above the church pews toward the pulpit
where it came to complete rest. Mission accomplished.


Proof that the shortest space between two points,
pilots know, Is not always a straight line.

Canberra Bubble




A change in the air reminds me of twenty minutes lost, 

alert to the waltz a virtuous murmuration of starlings gave.

A fabulous swirling smoke of beating, iridescent wings, and assuring cries.

The ubiquitous birds hopping after insects, rising as one mass from the lawn

that evening became a swoosh, a concert, a dance rising and falling, a twisting

 and turning of synchronised swimming on the  fluid

broiling air. A smoke curling above the dark tree-line their flight of fancy.



Currently, a vicious parliament rings to a decade of got-you’s.

The debate, a pixilated landscape of noise  

swirling through digital platforms, flying upward

toward a vector of warbling publishers

to meet more misdirection and gaslighting.

Media gathers there, for debate curling over

 and through sensibility, yet loses nothing

of the awful, fascinating, and ceaseless filibuster

of truth lived by half the population denied a roost, 

swooping toward a light shining upon raw truth,

now a boisterous law of prevailing opinion circles Canberra .

A wrecking ball of justice might just smash the Canberra Bubble this term.

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You and Me

We live life one day at a time. However we live each day it is just part of the patchwork of activity people live. Today I can think of nothing better than celebrating humankind as it is recorded in the 2021 film Life In A Day.

Watch the film found at https://lifeinaday.youtube/

Just so you can celebrate being your fabulous self.

A Day Playing By The Rules

Morning.

No fudging!

No Steelies!

Play for keeps!

A dusty rut marks the circle

where animated boys ring the orbit

for play, to cry,

“No Girls”

Egged on by allies, they shoot,

Aggies, Cat’s Eye, Milk glass,

hunkered down, fist on ground,

a Lemonade Taw knocks out the Glassie,

et shot tour de force.

Penny marble,

threepence at most,

all Spud needed

to fill his drawstring bag at lunchtime

when rules, ruled.

Afternoon.

Billy McMahon’s marble fell,

Marlene’s groom Ian

marched, measured, militarised,

fit to kill

fell on a foreign paddy,

loading artillery

fifteen kilometres

from the action.

The town turned out

when 3791583

marched home, alone

on a fancy gun carriage.

Rulers decreed — Regimental rules applied

Evening

All welcome.

A roulette marble drops,

winners play on,

launder money,

or lose the house.

The game played for a government’s budget has,

all white,

or ocean blue chips,

to cover

the dollar,

or thousand, each represents

because no one needs a drawstring bag

in a cashless world.

Rules, rule in the house,

“not fit to hold a licence.”

Spinners

He sat squarely on the piano stool. The boy reached out and opened Aunt Clara’s piano and spontaneously played. The lad played it so well his father bought him a baby grand piano at age 10 and reluctantly agreed he could at last take music lessons. At 13, young Louis played at his own Bar Mitzvah. By the time his influence entered my world he was a noted maestro and a chain smoking conductor his friends called Lenny.

By 1960 his modern opera, a rework of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet had reached the Princess Theatre Melbourne. The music by Leonard Bernstein with a libretto by Stephen Sondheim tells of a gang war between Puerto Ricans and the Whites ( or the Jets and Sharks). At that stage Bernstein was thirty-two. Sixty years ago the 33 year old reached new critical acclaim when this musical was released as film by the same name. A few years latter the film reached Melbourne and Jennie and I went to see it. I was so enthralled by it we bought a 12 inch LP ( Long Play) recording of the cast performance.

Our Pye, three-in-one player: (TV, Radio, and Turn-Table), was never put to use before it was stolen from our home. However, the record stayed and was a regular hit with us. The tracks; “I Feel Pretty”, “Tonight”, “America”, and “Somewhere”, have entered the canon of America’s greatest works. Fortunately, Stephen Sondheim lives on, Lenny died from the after effects of an addiction to tobacco, and his friend, American composer, Arron Copeland has also died. Clearly the world is poorer without their talent.

When we bought the West Side Story record, the best recorded music was found on 12 inch L P’s. We bought several. Most came from a group trading as The World Record Club and they were recordings of classical music. The records ran for 60 minutes, but the user could only hear the last 30 minutes by stopping the player and turning the recording to hear the reverse side. Fortunately, a 12 inch vinyl record was a big improvement on previous records. The extra time recorded on each disc was achieved by reducing the speed of the turntable to 33 revolutions per minute and adding width to it.

With the 33 rpm turntable also offered the listener other speed choices. A 45 rpm disc was the record used at the time by pop song promoters. The record had two sides and two songs. It was common for the promoter to advertise one of the two songs on each record. The A side was supposed to be better than the B side. Frequently they got it wrong, in the ears of the listeners, and the more popular song was on the reverse.

The first recording I ever bought was of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. It was written in 1880 to commemorate the Battle of Borodino where Tsar Alexander 1’s forces routed Napoleon in 1812. As my student allowance money was scarce my copy was a 45 vinyl disc. The overture only lasts about 16 minutes. To my annoyance half way through the performance the record had to be flipped over to hear the remainder. It was certainly a performance Tchaikovsky had not written, even though it was performed with actual canons.

The gramophone of the 1960’s replaced the model my uncle Paul had graduated to just a few years before. He had a passion for the popular music recorded before WW11. Performer’s names included favourites such as: Chick Corea, Al Bowlly, Fats Waller, Count Basie, Ross Colombo, and the catalogue ran on with the names of band leaders such as Chick Webb, Artie Shaw and the Dorsey brothers. The records were 78 rpm. Each side ran for about 3 minutes. I have retained one I have altered to a clock face. It is a Decca recording, of Bing Crosby singing, On the Sunny Side Of The Street.

Paul was fanatical about his collection. Each record had a matching file card. The card mentioned the name of the song: where and when it was recorded, who the musicians were. (The cards may have had other information I have no idea. But he did). For thirty years he ran an old time music program on, not one, but two community radio stations. He based each program on the notes he had made at the time of purchase.

When he started to collect these tunes they were sold in a brown paper sleeves. When he played a recording he would wipe any dust that might have fallen on it. Originally the first tunes he played was on a gramophone he had to wind up. The record was placed on a felt disc and the pickup was lowered onto the disc from the outside edge. The pick up was a steel needle. To protect his collection he would use a new needle for every recording he played.

The shellac recordings were brittle and easily damaged. The sound was reproduced by a needle running in the groove made when the sound was recorded. The trouble with such a system is the damage caused by the friction made playing the music.

Paul’s was not the first wind up machine. That role goes to the phonograph. Our neighbours, the Coverdale’s, had an original model. It played music recorded on cylinders. The recording method was similar in that used to make 78s. In that a grove was cut into the cylinder using a mechanism that converted the sound waves into energy that did the inscribing. The pickup followed the scratch to reproduce the singers voice.

Over the course of my life. We have used tape recorders, compact discs, and down loaded LPs to digital programs so they can be reproduced from the computer. I was ever so impressed when Ben and Nina introduced me to the first iPlayer. I found it hard to believe such a tiny recorder could hold so much music and be reproduced so easily.

Years ago I downloaded my entire record collection to my mobile phone, and I have listened to it amplified by wifi and Bluetooth. I have even used Spotify but I have found the range of classical music limited so when in doubt or in need of a switch-up I turn to an app on my phone and I can get worldwide coverage of classical music programs any time of day.

Aficionados, like to explain the 3mp copy excludes much of the pure sound a vinyl recording gives. They may be right but to my creaky old ears it sounds ok and it plays without the need to jump up and turn a record on the turntable. It is even better than the “clunk” you got when one record dropped onto the other when records were stacked one upon the other on a multi-player.

Any A, B or Z musician would be proud to be enjoyed so easily today. Bernstein, Beethoven, Brahms, or Borodin — music is great. That you can listen to any-type of music anywhere from the phone in your pocket is something the boys and girls of West Side Story could never have imagined