Our four legs ran as three

In lockdown, exercise means doing tai chi at home via Zoom, or walking round the nearby blocks time after time. Now, finally, the fully vaccinated can play a little croquet. One day recently I was overtaken by nostalgia for more athletic times…. So much so that I took to rhyme….

FIT AT ANY AGE

Survived the childhood trauma,/ The last pick for each team,

I keep hoping, now much older,/ To fulfil my fitness dream.

My tai chi moves are just okay,/ I stroll around the block,

I muddle round at croquet/ and fail to beat the clock.

Arthritic and asthmatic,/ Excuses ever mounting,

Shortsighted, unathletic/ 78 and counting…

But do I lose heart, do I sigh/ At losing all the time?

Never! I remember/ The glory of my prime.

At the Beulah Park Sports Day,/ 1989,

They marvelled at our triumph/ My friend Lynette’s and mine.

My friend Lynette

Oh, what an exhibition/Of pluck and nerve and grace

To fulfil our life’s ambition/ And come first in a race.

Our ankles taped together,/ Our four legs ran as three,

Three-legged champions/ My friend Lynette and me.

In case you think we’re fibbin/ The proof is here to see:

A green winner’s ribbon/ For Lynette Wright and me.

Three-legged winners’ trophy, Beulah Park Sports Day

PENELOPE NELSON

October 2021

Can craft change the world?

The 2020 election debates in the USA were terrifying. In the first, Donald Trump barely let Joe Biden say a word. Before the second, I was terrified. Would Trump trample all over Biden again?

What can you do about terror? People take pills, I know, but they don’t have immediate effect. Getting drunk? I didn’t want the hangover.

Magic? Getting closer. Maybe old crafts have a mysterious power.

I turned to home sewing. The day before the debate, I cut out 12 pieces of fabric, 6 for a long, linen summer skirt and 6 pieces of cotton to line it. That meant I would have 10 long, straightish seams to sew.

The debate began. I whirred down the first seam. The candidates made opening statements, more civilly than in the first debate.

A bit of debate. Whirr-rr. Whirr-rr. A lot of Trump. A bit of Biden. Whirr-rr. Whirr-rr. My skirt was coming together.

I took a break to make coffee. Amazingly, Biden made a few points without interruption or insult from his opponent.

Whirr-rr, whirr-rr. Before too long, the skirt had come together. Then the lining. Whirr-rrrr…..

By the end of the debate, only the zipper, hem and waist needed to be done. Later I made a belt and put my art deco nurse’s buckle on it.

My magical anti-Trump skirt

Can I really claim that a bit of home sewing had any effect on the US election result? Perhaps not, but who can say it didn’t?

There are scholars who think craft, ordinary home sewing, knitting and other folksy skills can help make a better world. Dr Amy Twigger Holroyd, Associate Professor at Nottingham Trent University, researches the intersection of fashion, making, design and sustainability. She has written a book called Folk Fashion, Understanding Homemade Clothes.

In a recent interview on ABC radio, she reflected that wearing something your Mum had made was once a source of shame. “It looks like something from a store” was a compliment. These days, however, home sewing is less an act of frugal necessity, more like an enjoyable leisure activity or a type of self-expression. It is also one small bulwark against the throwaway fast fashion that clogs our world with waste.

I looked up this fascinating scholar’s website: amytwiggerholroyd.com and sent her an email with a picture of my anti-Trump skirt. She replied at once:

What a great story! I love the way that textiles can carry these invisible and personal meanings. Whenever you wear it I’m sure you’ll remember the experience… and the worldwide sigh of relief at the eventual election result.

I wore the skirt a few times last summer, but now that spring’s arriving, I intend to wear it again this year, and perhaps for years to come.

PENELOPE NELSON

September 2021

Cultivating my garden

Nightmares on the television. Gun-toting Taliban victors with disconcerting smiles. Ever-rising Covid cases in New South Wales.

So I retreat to cultivate the garden.

Once, not so long ago, I really had a garden. My garden notebook says IN BLOOM AUGUST 2009: jasmine, magnolia, pink and red camellia, clivia, alyssum, geraniums, maybush, a few bits of bougainvillea and a couple of jonquils.

Then we sold the house. Crowded tropical planting is not the fashion. In March 2012 I was silly enough to walk past. I wrote on the inside page of the notebook GONE! Margaret’s avocado tree, the frangipani, all the coast rosemary, all the ivy, geraniums, tree ferns, wisteria and its arbour, all the monstera deliciosa, jonquils, narcissus, bilbergias, alyssum, seaside daisies. In their place were a very large garage and a few lines of well disciplined greenery.

Now I have a balcony. In the planter we have a long line of liriope, a reedy lily turf with small purple flowers in summer, and a couple of tree ferns. In pots we have frangipanis and agaves. I also planted some giveaway seeds from Woolworths, the star being this pansy:

What could be more optimistic than planting a seed? What a colour combination! Eat your heart out, Monet!

One of the consolations of lockdown has been a long run of sunny winter days. The liriope thinks it’s growing season, so I have been out with the watering can and the Seasol, fertilising.

There’s a rank, dead-fish scent to it, but miracles are happening down in the soil. Gardens really do lift the spirits.

PENELOPE NELSON

August 2021

Convict women defied authority

Australia’s female convicts are often depicted as sluts and thieves. They stole, certainly, but usually from desperation. Their privileged contemporaries deplored sexual behaviour that did conform to middle class codes. But what were convict women really like?

Babette Smith’s new book, Defiant Voices, celebrates the defiance and resilience of the 25,000 women transported to Australia. It took courage to stand up to the power of the courts, which could rip prisoners away from family, children and homeland, and send them to the far side of the globe. Smith finds many stories of women who swore, shouted, mocked and sang in the face of judges, prison guards, naval officers and employers.

The prisoners saw no shame in their crimes when the alternative would have been starvation. Their refusal to show repentance in court angered and bewildered authorities:

When the judge pronounced a sentence of transportation,the two women were…extremely insolent to him and … ‘in vulgar language.. told him, “We have plenty of law but little justice.” Two other women joined in. …As they were about to leave the dock, they ‘jumped and capered about and laughing at the judge said, “Thank you my lord.”‘

page 29, Defiant Voices

The average age of female convicts was 25, but many were teenagers and a few were as young as 12. They banded together on board ships, at Female Factories and in workplaces, always ready to call out anything they considered unfair. In later life they often proved to be valuable employees, and many escaped their convict status through marriage. Noisy rebels often grew into respectable workers, wives and mothers. Some lived much longer, healthier lives that they could have hoped for in England or Ireland. Mary Reibey (page 111) became a successful trader who helped found the Bank of New South Wales. Catherine Mangan (page 146) , who left four children in Ireland, was often in trouble for drunkenness, but had another six children with her ex-convict husband and died at the age of 87. Sarah Leadbetter, (page 79), a pretty 19-year-old thief, met William Lawson of the New South Wales Corps on Norfolk Island. In 1812 they married and by the 1820s Sarah was the mistress of Veteran Hall at Prospect, arranging piano lessons for her daughters. Susannah Watson (page 233), Babette Smith’s forebear, left four children in England that she never saw again. The baby who came to Sydney with her died at the age of three. Susannah had a further two children in Australia, and in a letter to her daughter in England, described her new home as a “plentiful, extravagant” country. Except for the loss of her English children, she regarded transportation as the best thing that happened to her.

Defiant Voices has illustrations on nearly every page, many drawn from the National Library’s convict era material.

Young and defiant convict lass

Babette Smith dedicates the book to “the thousands of family and academic historians whose research into women convicts has produced such riches.” A few decades ago, in deference to widespread shame about our convict ancestors, archives and libraries made it difficult to access information about them. Now convict ancestors are celebrated rather than obscured, and many archivists, librarians and university lecturers owe their jobs to the widespread thirst for information about our past.

Defiant Voices brings a vast array of material on the convict system together with dozens of lively vignettes of individual convict women. This compelling book combines scholarship with original insights.

PENELOPE NELSON

July 2021

Babette Smith, Defiant Voices, How Australia’s Female Convicts Challenged Authority, National Library of Australia Publishing, 288 pages, $49.99 – available from the NLA bookstore online, and other online outlets

Sport, sport and sport

With apologies to Lord Alfred Tennyson: Better to have played and lost than never to have played before. (1)

Every year Australians get excited about tennis, epecially around the performances at Wimbledon, and every four years about a range of sports, some of which (e.g. artistic swimming, snchronised diving) only excite the nation, or are even heard of, at the Olympics. This year Stewart McSweyn has been selected in the Australian team for the Tokyo Olympics in the 1500, 5000 and 10,000m track and field events. An outstanding achievement. But we all know that there are only two sports that matter, even to Stewart’s mum. Stewart has a twin brother Angus. In an alarming interview on the ABC 7.30 program his mother, in a Ripley’s ‘believe it or not’ moment, actually said, ‘Angus is the more gifted of the two boys. He could easily do things when playing cricket and football.’

Here follow my confessions. I was no good at either football or cricket, yet despite my inabilities I enjoy both as spectator sports. I look back on three great moments in my sporting life (football, cricket and tennis), with a sense of pleasure, largely because of the enjoyment shared with my extended family.

AFL Football

I gradually came to accept that ‘forward pocket’ was a place where they hid the school house team captain’s younger brother. I happily accepted that position. My expectations, and I suspect those of my teammates were low and happily I was able to meet them.

Several years ago at a family gathering a football appeared, a regular event on such occasions, and the assorted siblings, in-laws and nieces and nephews began a game of kick to kick. For those not familiar with this termiology Wikipedia has the following entry: ‘a pastime and well-known tradition of Australian Rules football fans, and a recognised Australian term for kick and catch type games. It is a casual version of Australian Rules.’ Anyone can join in, with an opportunity for showing off both kicking and marking skills. A favourite nephew, not known for his sporting prowess, kicked the ball which dribbled off his foot and caused much hilarity, punctuated by a comment from another favourite nephew (all nephews are favourites) who observed loudly: “Don’t worry. We regard you as the Robert of our generation.” Both of us took this to be a great compliment.

Cricket

The apogee of my adolescent cricketing was the award of a trophy for “most improved C2” mounted on a plinth of brown bakelite (polyoxybezylmethylenglycolanhydrate). Was this for encouragement, consolation or perseverance, or the obviously well-deserved recognition of a brilliant display when I’d made 8 not out in the final match of the season? My brother regularly found the opportunity to mention this at Christmas family gatherings when the collected nieces and nephews played cricket, even if only tippity run, ‘a form of backyard cricket; the defining rule of the form, which requires the batsman to run if they hit the ball.’

Several years ago I decided to present the trophy to m brother for a Christmas present, since over the years he’d obviously drawn more pleasure from it than I had. At that stage he was playing in Victoria in a State representative seniors’ team. In the end common sense and dignity prevailed and the trophy must still be in the house somewhere, though we don’t have a pool room. That very same Christmas my brother gave me a surprise present. He had been to the local historical society, located the records of the South Warrandyte Cricket Club, and especially copied for me the minutes of the meeting at which it was determined that the most improved player in the Club should be me.

Tennis

Lest anyone think my life was blighted only by football and cricket I recount one other magic moment. It was my mother’s 75th birthday I believe when we all celebrated at a friend’s home. There we all played tennis, but uncharacteristically my mother announced to the family that she would no longer be playing singles tennis against any of us. When asked why, she gave an unequivocal answer: “I’ve never been beaten by Robert and I’m not going to give him a chance at this stage of my life.”

I now play Croquet and there are several aspects that delight me about the game. It is cerebral; the desire to win is not paramount (or is at least subservient to the intention to make an opponent lose); and in the most recent COVID shutdown croquet was recognised not as a community sport but rather as an opportunity to exercise. And I can beat my brother at croquet.

Great sporting moments in my life may be tinged with both bathos andpathos, but I suffer no psychological injury, and futhermore a consequence of not taking sport at all seriously means I am perhaps the only family member not to suffer long-term cosnequences of any sporting injuries.

Best to be a good sport rather than good at sport, though if like Ashleigh Barty you can be both then life is even better than best.

…….

(1) There is no record that Lord Alfred Tennyson ever palyed sport and his sole reference to sport in his writings indicates that he knew little of cricket. His gene pool ultimately gained respect when his grandson captained the English cricket team.

ROBERT J. KING

July 2021

Cryptic joys of a minor lunacy

My grandfather was addicted to cryptic crosswords. My mother also attacked one every morning, finishing her last on the day she died.

Can the addiction be inherited? I am also in the grip of this strange affliction, which my grandfather called “one of the minor lunacies.”

This week I’ve had a triumph. Believe it or not, I got out the entire David Astle Sydney Morning Herald Friday cryptic crossword.

David Astle cryptic, 25 June 2021

My mother died more than thirty years ago, but when I’m doing a crossword, her voice is insistently audible. “Did you try an anagram?” she asks me. Or in a more exasperated tone – “It’s an anagram, you fool!”

I did start off with an anagram. 17 ACROSS: “Awfully shy clique I left, making a sucking sound (8)“. Once I wrote down SHY CL – QUE (the I had to be left out), SQUELCHY leapt out.

Then I had a bit of luck. 25 ACROSS, 22 DOWN. “Nod to positive discrimination? (11, 6)” AFFIRMATIVE ACTION, what else?

I solved a few more, let my brain work on a couple as I went off to play croquet, and came back to the task later. Amazingly I found more and more solutions. Most Fridays I have to be content with a dozen. I really liked some clues in this puzzle. There is a real gasp of delight when a clue is funny, apt and decipherable. My favourite from this Friday is 19 ACROSS: “Increase delighted parasite (6)”. The answer? UPTICK.

I ACROSS is also pretty good. “Criticise what only A-list actors can do (4,5)”. The answer is PICK APART.

My father, who never learned the art of cryptic crosswords, failed to empathise with addicts. “How many hours of your life have you wasted on those things?” he would demand of my mother. She’d give a brief, unrepentant smile. Minor lunacies do not rate a major marital dispute.

My own husband is not bad at cryptics and has been known to help me out with a scientific or engineering term. This time, though, I found PLUTONIUM without resource to his authority.

I do use other autorities, a well-thumbed crossword dictionary, the Macquarie Dictionary online thesaurus, and when absolutely desperate, Dan’s word, a crossword-helper site. However, I solved this one without Dan. I was told about that site by three men who sit in a cafe in Glebe Point Road, opposite the library, every morning, solving the Herald crossword together.

There are worse ways to start a day. A couple of mates, a cup of coffee, a nice fresh pastry, and a cryptic crossword. Wouldn’t my grandfather have loved it!

PENELOPE NELSON

June 2021

A golden castle in the sky

2021 seems to be the Year of Clouds.

My May calendar (thanks again, Bureau of Meterology) has a remarkable photo of Kelvin-Heimholtz clouds. I’ve never actually seen them, but I was sufficiently intrigued by the picture to look them up. They are fairly rare, most likely to occur in mountain regions. When there is cool air underneath a cloud mass and warm air above it, the warm stream moves faster, causing the tops to curve like breaking waves.

photo by Steven Sandner Photography

Closer to home, I saw a golden castle over the sea this week, putting the local 1980s highrise to shame with its elegance and sheen:

A golden castle in the air

The image doesn’t do justice to its magical allure. I could see why sailors in old tales set off on quests for El Dorado. It’s there, hovering over the Pacific, not far from Coogee…. All aboard…

I could look it up on one of those cloud-identification sites. I’m sure a meterologist could explain it.

But for now I’ll just go on basking in the glow.

PENELOPE NELSON

May 2021

Les, Peter, John, James – and Peter

Les Murray’s poetry books fill a long shelf, and his Collected Poems (Black Inc 2018) runs to more than 700 pages.

So it was a challenge for actor Peter Carroll and theatre polymath John Senczuk to choose a group of poems for a coherent performance piece, titled Burning Want. I was peripherally involved as literary adviser. Plans for 2020 were cut short when theatres went dark.

This week the project came to life at the SBW Foundation’s Seaborn library in Neutral Bay, with Peter Carroll’s moving performance of Burning Want, supported by James Boyd-Hoare, who composed piano music to set the mood.

Burning Want flyer

The audience responded very warmly to Peter Carroll’s performance, which brought a wide range of poems to life – some tragic, some wry, a couple hilarious.

At each session, the audience included people with special connections to the Murray oeuvre. Graham MacDonald, former editor of honi soit, was the first to put a Murray poem in print, in April 1959 in the Sydney University student paper.

Property

In my secret garden/ I kept three starlings,/ In my secret locket/ three copper farthings.

One zinc-grey evening/ The birds escaped me/ And a crippled man stole/ My shining money.

The starlings wandered/ Till three hawks took them,

And now my agents/ Have caught the cripple.

Les Murray

This poem doesn’t appear in the Collected Poems, so it was exciting to have it rediscovered.

The discovery of new poems continued. After the matinee performance, an audience member produced an occasional poem that Les Murray wrote in recent years to celebrate the 80th birthday of a neighbouring farmer. A jaunty celebratory rhyme, it was full of bouncing tennis balls and references to how much joy the recipient and his wife got from tennis.

The day left me marvelling at the brilliance of Les Murray’s words, and Peter Carroll’s immersion in the very essence of the poems. Composer and pianist James Boyd-Hoare was another exciting discovery, and John Senczuk’s talent and verve always delight me.

Afterwards I was given a bunch of bush greenery to take home. I posed next to a picture of the charismatic Peter Finch. What a day!

In the Seaborn Library foyer with Peter Finch

PENELOPE NELSON

April 2021

Anti-Discrimination at Dapto

From late 1978 to mid 1982 I worked at the Anti-Discrimination Board of NSW. It was an exciting place with committed Board members and staff. In those early days the ADB was an autonomous outlier of Premier’s Department. Refugees from South-East Asia and migrants from the Middle East were making New South Wales a more diverse society.

Initially the grounds for complaint under the Anti-Discrimination Act 1977 were race, sex and marital status. By 1982, physical impairment and homosexuality had been added.

The tiny community relations team had the task of making five million citizens aware of their rights. We wrote leaflets and radio spots in many languages; we prepared TV infomercials, we started a newsletter and we travelled to many regional towns and cities. We ran conferences. We briefed the media on hearings before the Board. We ran seminars in schools, universities and many places of work. The Senior Sergeants of Police are particularly memorable. The convenor would greet me with, “There are more than 300 years of policing experience in this room.”

Community relations officer, ADB, 1980

Colleagues who were researching discrimination based on age, religion, political conviction, homosexuality and disability had expertise and wide contacts. Our Aboriginal project officer taught me a great deal. We worked with the Ethnic Affairs Commission on tackling racial vilification.

But not every day was a triumph.

Occasionally there was an outright disaster.

One autumn evening, leaving my husband and sons on their own, I drove south to Dapto – I’d been invited to speak at a service club. I reached my motel at dusk and was on time at the venue. The engineer who’d invited me seemed friendly, and so did the club president. The dinner went smoothly enough. Club formalities followed, with various jokes and fines from the Sergeant-at-Arms.

There were no wives at this event. A waitress and I were the only women in sight. There were about 45 men.

I was introduced.

This is the gist of what I said: Your right to a fair go. Discrimination complaints on the grounds of race, sex and marital status. Early cases before the Board. Equal opportunities for all. Increasing numbers of women in fire-fighting, policing and skilled trades.

The President thanked me and called on a man from the far side of the room to move the vote of thanks.

Mercifully I have no memory of what the man looked like. But his words will stay with me forever. “That would be the greatest load of crap I ever heard in my entire life.”

I was wearing a red woollen dress. I could feel my face reddening to match it.

While the engineer and the president were wondering how to make amends, two men dashed up to me.

“Terrific talk!” they said. “We aren’t members here – we’re visiting from the Fairy Meadow club, and we want you to know we never treat our guests like that at Fairy Meadow.”

I was grateful to those two kind men. Ever since, I’ve had a a special fondness for Fairy Meadow.

PENELOPE NELSON

March 2021