Readers' Stories
Readers’ Stories
Here's where you can contribute your own short story by and/or about Seniors. There is no prize but we will publicise stories on
YOURLifeChoices and in our regular newsletters. Please keep the stories under 1000 words and email them to
.
In 2002, there was a short story competition on
YOURLifeChoices. The winning story was
Moving in with the Kids by Bonnie Travers.
Click on the title to see the story.
Latest contributions
2007 ASCCA Creative Writing Competition
Adventurous Ian
Ilona’s story – My two cats
Zoe’s story
The Eucumbene Storm
The coffee shop in Kings Cross
Gena’s joke
Cancer survivor
Ilona’s tales
Don’s thoughts on Prairie Home Companion
My Diagnosis
Plight of the Desert Horses
Stories from the 2002 competition
Mistake on a mast
When Peter Garrett or Penny Wong blurb on our media about the virtues of Solar Power I have the “chuck bucket” ready. Have either of them a solar installation? A real one? I doubt it. If they had they would have experienced the total and utter unreliability of solar and wind where there is no back connection to the grid.
I guess that on the farm we have spent close to $70,000 for an installation using professionals all the way only to find that the equipment, the batteries, the exposure to the elements makes this a very dubious technology indeed. As part of our installation we had two wind turbines. Not only did they keep us and the neighbours awake at night, they became victims of lightning which struck at the very core of our system and took significant money and time to re-asses and replace.
That’s not the only thing. Over- zealous sales people (who talk more like religious fanatics than green-power professionals) sold us the wrong batteries for our installation, gave us, and recommended, an installer whose work had to be redone, etc, etc, ad nauseam. So P.G & P.W, get some first hand experience before you become such evangelists. The solar/wind cost per KW hour is something, which, if applied to a suburban household will have our beloved Kevin out on his ear in no time.
And another thing, as I was out preparing the mast for the new wind generator there was certainly no global warming, it was just above 0 degrees and the windchill reminded me of my time in the snows of Canada. So all in all, P.G and P.W for me, your credibility gets lower by the minute. It was probably not enhanced by my mood because I had to adjust the old wind mast guides to accommodate a new, heavier mast. My mistook. Grumble. Grumble. Fumble. Fumble.
Which, now I’m sitting in the comfort of the house at the computer, seems a little unfair (but only maybe) because here I am, taking out my frustrations on our elected’s who are probably easy targets.
And I am reminded of the parable about a man who owed a king’s ransom and who begged for time to pay from the monarch. Not only was he given time to pay, but the debt was wiped.
However, once out of the king’s presence, he saw a person who owed him a tiny debt, just enough to get him into court. Which he duly does and sells the family of the small debtor into penury and prison. This is observed by some of the king’s other servants and they duly report it. Where upon the tables are turned.
Perhaps I should grant P.G. and P.W. a little more slack. My green power frustrations are my business not theirs. I’m sure they mean well. However I do have a question of them.
At dinner last night we had a guest who works at a coal fired power station. He bulldozes the coal into the station. 25,000 tons per day. Assuming no CO2 capture or advanced technology, and being generous in that one ton of coal produces one ton of CO2 (it’s up to 3 times that), if Kevin, P.G and P.W set the carbon price at $20 per ton, that power station is going to be paying a tax to the aforementioned of $500,000+ per day ($182,000,000 p.a) to operate. What is that going to do for power bills? Is it my imagination or is the hoax on us because of some “ expert” scientists and the economist’s report?
We may all find ourselves owing a king’s ransom just for power and petrol to satisfy the government’s desire to lead the world in what is demanded of them by the global warming high priests who may be proven wrong when the ice age approaches in the next decade.. I somehow suspect that we won’t be getting our debts forgiven.
Adventurous Ian
Ian Reynolds is a 79-year-old boatie who set off on 1 November, commencing his 12-month journey, circumnavigateing Australia on board a Riviera 56.
Ian and his crew set off from the Gold Coast and are currently making their way down to Sydney. During the voyage, which will cover more than 9000 nautical miles and is expected to take up to one year, the crew will stop at cities around the coast to visit the region and take in the many wonderful sights that Australia has to offer.
One of the highlights of the adventure will be when Ian celebrates his 80th birthday in the Kimberley region.
The crew will also be stopping and exploring towns and cities including Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, Port Lincoln, Ceduna, Esperance, Cape Leuwin, Albany, Fremantle, Geraldton, Monkey Mia/Shark Bay, Carnarvon, Coral Bay/Ningaloo Reefs, Barrow Island, Broome, Derby, Wyndham, Darwin, Gove, Weipa, Horn Island and Port Douglas, before his return to the Gold Coast.
YOURLifeChoices wishes Ian the best of luck and can’t wait to hear the stories of his adventure.
Ilona’s story – My two cats
Enjoy this lovely tale of the joys and sorrows of a lifetime of looking after beloved pets.
Muri was a very loyal Burmese cat who dearly wanted to be loved. Whenever I passed him during the day, he reminded me, with a call, that he was there and wanted a pat. He loved to play hide and seek. After I had asked several times, “Where is he?” he would put a paw forward from wherever he was hiding, to give me permission to find him.
In the morning, he would hide behind a heavy curtain, patiently waiting for my return from the bathroom; then, with a jump, he would catch my leg from behind. The louder my expressions of surprise the greater his obvious satisfaction. When he wanted to go out to the garden, he sat motionless before the door until we took notice of him. The same thing happened when he was hungry. He fixed his gaze on the handle of the refrigerator until this marvelous magic box was opened and its hidden goodies were given to him.
In the evening, he knew the exact time to go to the gate and wait for us.
Usually my husband arrived home first and, after the welcoming ceremony, Muri triumphantly led the way straight to the fridge to receive his reward. When the time of my homecoming was near, he went to the gate again to collect me. Finally, when all three of us were together and every thing in its right place, he knew that his duty was done and that dinner would soon be served.
Muri had been with us for nine years when, a neighbor’s cat, Czinka, walked over (while the neighbours were away on Xmas holidays) and decided never to go back home. After the neighbors came home, there was a daily struggle for about two weeks. The boys would come over to collect her to take her back and secure her. But, after two or three minutes, she was always back. We never discovered her cunning escape route. Finally, the neighbors gave up, and she knew that she had won the battle. She stayed with us.
Czinka selected a chair to sleep on and, several times during the night, she woke me up with her loud purring and walking around my head, until I got up and accompanied her back to her chair and had a long heart-to-heart talk with her, to assure her that she was welcome, loved and secure with us.
After suffering from a month of interrupted sleep, I had a serious talk with her. After that, it was precisely four o’clock when she woke me up, virtually saying, “stroke me, pat me, talk to me! the morning is close and all the birds will be getting up soon”. The house vibrated with her loud purring as she greeted the first rays of sunlight. If I ignored her, she would put her paw gently on my face. Muri would watch this morning performance with wistful eyes. I patted him too and told him I loved him very much also. “Yes,” he seemed to say, “but you pat her more than me.” I would reply, “That is only because she is more possessive”. But he never seemed quite satisfied about it!
A few months later, a stroke blinded Muri and another one paralysed his hind legs. He was ten years old when he died. Muri was gone, and shortly afterwards, my husband also died, after a long and painful illness.
During all that time there was never a day when I did not remember my Mother; nor a day when I did not think of the many broken nights sleep she must have gone through when we twins were sick. Or when we cried for a change of position, or just cried in support of a complaining twin sister. I thought of her constant dilemma in deciding which one she should pick up first? Her decision probably was to choose the most possessive one, or the one who was crying loudest for attention. I paid daily tribute to my mother for all the hardships and heartaches she must have suffered by having twins. But there was always the thought of the happiness she must also have known by having double ‘bundles of joy’.
For the last twelve years, Czinka has been my constant companion. Now it was she who reminded me, with a call, whenever I passed her during the day, that she was still there and wanted a pat. With time her health deteriorated. Our visits to the vet became more and more frequent as the years passed. “Kidney problems. There is not much that can be done,” said the Vet. I put steps before her several beds to try and make the climb easier for her and comforted her as much as I could.
There was a time when I hadn’t seen Cinkza for several days. The food and water I had placed at the entrances to her newly preferred hiding place is untouched. Then, one morning, to my great joy, Czinka called me from the garden. I offered her various delicacies and some water but nothing was to her liking. She lay down on the carpet in the dining room and I sat beside her. After a while she got up and walked into my husband’s room; she loved to sleep there. She then went to the kitchen and continued her tour into our (hers and
mine) bedroom. I took her in my arms and out to the front garden to pay farewell to every corner from where she had watched how fast the flowers grew; where she made sure every single blade of grass behaved itself properly; where she paid full attention to all the movements the children made on the street coming home from school in the afternoon; where she waited patiently for my homecoming.
After a while we walked back into the house and I thanked Czinka for being a loyal loving partner to me and my husband, and a faithful guardian of the garden, the birds, the lizards and the butterflies.
I had always longed for the feeling of Czinka lying in my lap, and for her companionship while I was reading. But she always refused. Now as her last gift to me, she fell asleep in my lap.
After six months, I left my home with the big garden, and moved into the Mercy Sisters, Retirement Village. My husband and the two cats had all departed earlier. I could only bring their treasured memories with me.
Zoe’s story
I took up rowing when I reached the age of 65. I had been thinking about it for some time but other things including kayaking seemed to get in the way.
I turned up to the Y Rowing Club in Albert Park, Melbourne on one of their Wednesday morning sessions and was hooked immediately. I had finally found an activity I could do with others even though I was considerably older than the average rower. Rowing is all about being in a team and working as a team. The feeling you get when the whole boat is in harmony is fantastic. You are at one with the water, the sky, the weather and the crew. My rowing skills gradually improved and I was looking for teammates to compete in the regattas. The only problem was that they kept disappearing. They were either having children, going to university or travelling the world and they were half my age. I have competed in Double sculls and have coxed younger crews and coached school girls but I really would like to compete in my own age group.
I decided to try to recruit a rowing team to compete in Quad sculls. This is where you row with two oars. Sculling is much better suited to the ageing body because the pressure on the body is evenly distributed. You need a good sense of balance and a fair bit of coordination but if you are willing to give it a try, I will teach you how.
To find out how to get in touch with Zoe, go to our personals page by clicking here
The Eucumbene Storm
They set out one morning, determined and bold,
To tame that Lake Eucumbene, so deep and so cold,
To catch the Big Mother, that’s what it’s about,
The best and the biggest, the Mother of all trout.
There was Karl and Son Charles, Ellis and Wayne,
In two stout tinnies, all things to gain,
Wayne Whybrow was there with such an apt name,
With Ellis the Champion – of Eucumbene fame.
Karl fished with his son, determined to win
That trophy off Ellis and the winner’s name pin,
And so they set out real early one morn,
That Lake, she was bright, in a sparkling dawn.
Up comes a trout! It looks like a big’un,
But Ellis looks on with smiling disdain,
While up comes another, maybe this is the one
That’ll take the big trophy to its place in the sun.
The morning meandered and the trout got rare,
But they all trolled on in the hope of a pair,
Charles caught another, a contender for sure,
To be placed on the scales, having taken the lure.
The day it wore on, getting colder and colder,
Lake Eucumbene watched as the wind it got bolder,
They took the boats to the banks to get out of the blow,
It’s getting quite rough. Hey! Maybe some snow?
Lake Eucumbene stirred in her contrary mood,
As fine fellows fished for their family’s food,
The afternoon threatened with big angry clouds,
And wind squalls arose, snow flurries around.
Into the banks, the water’s too rough,
So they sheltered and waited as the Lake became tough,
They stayed there awhile as more storm clouds gathered,
They watched and still waited as the wind waves lathered.
But ‘twas late and they felt that they’d better be going,
Or else it would seem they’d be caught in the snowing,
So into the tinnies they loaded their gear,
And prepared to set off – go home for a beer.
Wayne and Ellis went first, then Eucumbene struck,
With anger and whiplash, we’re clean out of luck,
Fifty metres offshore and we can’t turn around,
Or else we’ll turn turtle and probably drowned.
There’s Wayne at the front and Ellis is steering,
Keep the prow to the wind, but both men are fearing
That the wind is too strong and the waves are too high,
One little mistake and we’ll both surely die.
We plough through the breakers taking water galore,
As we both grit our teeth for the faraway shore.
Wayne’s knuckles are white as he asks “How far now?”
But Ellis replies, “Just hang tough right there in the bow!”
The spray comes right over, taking water like mad,
Our lives flash before us, it’s really quite bad
In the eye of the storm, but we’ll fight to the end,
Before that Lake Eucumbene to death will us send.
In come more breakers and up goes the prow,
Thank God, in the bow clings Big Wayne Whybrow,
Into the next wave, can’t see where we’re going,
Wayne’s weight brings it down but the water starts flowing…
Into the tinny, now we’re getting awash,
And Eucumbene’s howling with wind like a lash,
We’re rockin’ and rollin’, God knows where we’ll end,
NAY!! Straight to yon shoreline, our souls we’ll not send…
To God, in his mercy, has spared all us four,
‘Twas done just in time, ‘cos we couldn’t take more,
Wayne’s white knuckle deathgrip relaxed just a mite,
Now we’d beaten the bastard and won the hard fight.
We’re battling through to the camp fire’s shoreline,
As we see people watching and betting some more,
That we won’t really make it and drowned we will be,
Just two more poor fishermen as Eucumbene’s fee.
But make it we did, as did the other two blokes,
So cold and so wet, just four frightened folks,
We pulled the boats up, quite numb with relief,
That angry bitch Eucumbene stunned in belief.
We trudged up the hill, exhausted as hell,
But we’d beaten the bastard and done it right well,
Cameraderie’s there, and back slapping too,
As we told of the tales of that Eucumbene brew.
It’ll stay in our memories, that Eucumbene storm,
As the Kanga Poo’s talk in their warm cosy dorm,
But never again will we dare to take on,
Lake Eucumbene set to be the one that’s won.
Written by Ellis H of the Kanga-Poo Piscatorial Society
Ilona’s tale
The coffee shop in Kings Cross
Ilona remembers a special place in an unlikely setting in her story entitled ‘The coffee shop in King’s Cross’.
Way back in the fifties and sixties, my husband and I often went shopping in the city on a Saturday morning. By mere chance, my husband discovered a small coffee shop in King’s Cross and it became a treat for us to visit it for a cup of coffee after our shopping was finished.
It was only a small place with three round tables and chairs, but what a surprise for customers, who hardly expected to step back over a century and find themselves in the Rococo period.
A red Persian carpet covered the whole floor and its green pattern was the same shade as the velvet on the carved chairs. It was obvious that, except for the glass cake cabinet, all the furnishings had been brought from the exquisitely furnished home of the proprietor to create a very pleasant and inviting atmosphere.
The proprietress of the cake shop, a tall English lady, came to our table every time we visited her shop, to make sure that everything was to our satisfaction and comfort.
There was not a great variety of cakes on offer. Actually, only three different types, but all very fresh and appetising. The lovely cakes, the aroma of the coffee and the pleasant, home-like surroundings of this tiny shop brought us back every time we visited the city.
One day, to our great surprise, we found a changed shop. Everything that had given it style, character and intimacy had gone. Our little coffee shop had become just like all the other hundreds of coffee shops in Sydney. We could only take the memory of our little coffee shop with us. We never went back to King’s Cross again.
Written by Ilona K
Gena’s joke
Here at YOURLifeChoices we are pretty sure the Dalai Lama would adhere to the classic saying that ‘laughter is the best medicine’.
A 45-year-old woman had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital. While on the operating table she had a near death experience. Seeing God she asked “Is my time up?”
God said, “No, you have another 43 years, two months and eight days to live.”
Upon recovery, the woman decided to stay in the hospital and have a face-lift, liposuction, breast implants and a tummy tuck. She even had someone come in and change her hair color and brighten her teeth! Since she had so much more time to live, she figured she might as well make the most of it.
After her last operation, she was released from the hospital. While crossing the street on her way home, she was killed by an ambulance. Arriving in front of God, she demanded, “I thought you said I had another 43 years? Why didn’t you pull me from out of the path of the ambulance?”
God replied: “I didn’t recognise you.”
Cancer survivor
Murray B is an inspiring man – not only because he has survived an enormous upheaval and illness but also because he chooses to work with others who have been through something similar and to share his experiences with YOURLifeChoices subscribers.
When most people are told they have cancer they think, “this is the end”, but that is not necessarily the case. I was at work one morning driving buses and my left leg and foot started to swell so much that I had to undo my shoe and take it off. When I got back to the depot for my break, my supervisor asked if I knew my shoe was undone. I told him I did and the reason why, and we both agreed that I should go to the doctor and get him to test for Deep Vein Thrombosis.
After seeing the doctor and being sent for an ultrasound, which showed only poor circulation in my leg and no DVT, I was sent home to rest with my leg elevated for a week. On the Thursday afternoon I was making a cup of coffee when I felt a sharp pain in my right side which almost doubled me over. The next morning when I went to the doctor we both agreed that I could have a kidney stone so I was sent for another ultrasound – this time to see if a kidney stone existed.
The lady doing the ultra sound stopped after a while and went out to get the doctor at the radiologists. After some consultation they decided to ring my doctor and get permission to run a CT scan to check out the mass they had found. After having the CT scan they told me to go to my doctor first thing Saturday morning and he would have the results.
By late afternoon Wednesday, I was admitted to ward 4A at the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Brisbane. The first diagnosis was Renal Cell Carcinoma and the huge tumour was attached to my lower right lung and my liver. My right kidney was completely encased in it and it was also constricting my vena cava and main aorta and almost stopping circulation to my left leg.
Because of the size of the tumour and the number of organs involved I was examined by various doctors from different fields of medicine. After many tests, ultra sounds, cat scans and examinations, they decided that the tumour was too large and involved too many organs for me to have an operation.
Seven weeks later after a biopsy and a bone marrow biopsy it was found that what I had was a Large Diffused B Cell Lymphoma and that it could be treated with chemotherapy and radiation. After six courses of chemotherapy, each one three weeks apart, they followed up with radiation every day Monday to Friday for four weeks.
I found it hard at times to cope with some of the side effects of the treatment, especially the tingling in the fingers, as I have always liked to potter around doing things but found I couldn’t pick things up, hold things and even some days turn the pages in a book or the newspaper as I couldn’t feel them. Sometimes I would be talking to friends who had come to visit me and for no apparent reason I would start crying. Even today, three years after being diagnosed, I still have days where I just have to go and spend a couple of hours sleeping. In January 2004, I was told that I was in remission.
Checks and cat scans have been a three monthly event for the past two-and-a- half years and will be for some time to come. In 2004, I enlisted the help of some of my old work mates and friends and we entered a team in the Cancer Council Queensland Relay For Life. I also joined the Cancer Council Queensland, became a Cancer Connect volunteer and entered the Cancer Council Queensland Challenge to raise money for cancer research. My aim this year is to raise $20,000.
I am now not able to perform the job I was doing before getting cancer and have had to change my life. About February 2005, I decided that I felt well enough to try working again and was told that twenty-nine hours a week was all I was allowed to do. Centrelink arranged for an employment agency that specialises in people with disabilities to accept me and find work for me. Not being allowed to sit for long hours, work outside or do heavy lifting and being 59-years-young doesn’t leave the window open for a lot of jobs. I finally found employment at a car auction firm washing cars and driving them around the yard and through the auctions. After doing this for three months, I finally had to admit that I was not as well as I thought and was forced to give it away. I now deliver 1150 free papers on Wednesday and Friday mornings.
The upside of all this is that Brenda my wife and I are able to get in the car and go for drives any time we feel like it. I am also my wife’s carer, as Brenda had a stroke on 10 February 2005 and several TIAs (mini-strokes). In January 2006, after suffering lower back pain, MRI and CT scans showed I have a compression fracture of the L1 vertebrae caused by the radiation treatment and osteoporosis in my left hip.
I am 61-years-old and intend to carry on with my Cancer Council volunteer work for many years to come as a Cancer Connect volunteer. This year I am Chairman of the Relay For Life to be held in Bentleigh for the first time, and to attend the 125th reunion in New Zealand of my old fire brigade in Levin, New Zealand, in 2027.
Murray B.
Ilona’s tales
Joseph the bus driver
During the seventies, we lived in Roseville. There was a bus stop right in front of our neighbour’s house, which was very convenient when I wanted to catch the bus to Lindfield Station.
It frequently happened that I left home earlier than necessary and thus enjoyed the activities on the school bus and the delightful way that the bus driver, Joseph, welcomed and treated his small passengers.
I remember a morning when a mother hurriedly put her little daughter on the bus and gave instructions to Joseph, “Take her to the school and make sure she finds the right door. Lizzy is still very small you know,” she remarked lovingly. Joseph only gave the suggestion of a nod, but the mother seemed to be quite assured that her little daughter would be well looked after. When we arrived at the school, Joseph left the driver’s seat and picked up the little girl. He placed her on the footpath, took her hand and walked through the gate with her towards the school building. They stopped a little distance from the ‘right door’ and he bent down to Lizzy and pointed toward the door in through which she should go. He then stood and waited until Lizzy reached the door, turned and waved goodbye, before disappearing through the ‘right door’.
Little Lizzy was not the only one who enjoyed Joseph’s attention. Joseph had a ‘special’ relationship with each one of his little folk. He knew their names, he knew their favourite pastimes and he also knew their personal problems.
I particularly loved being on the school bus in the afternoon, when Joseph dutifully collected all ‘his kids’ from different schools and delivered them safely to their homes. They gathered around him like chirping chicks round a mother hen. They told him all the exciting events that happened in class during the day. They all talked at the same time and, to my ears, it sounded like chorus of children’s fresh lovely young voices. But in some mysterious way, Joseph understood every thing that was said to him and always gave a suitable answer in his calm, quiet voice. All the same, he never took his eyes off the road when driving. The boys trusted him with their man-to-man talk too. There was always complete silence when Joseph said something and I once heard his answer to one of his questioners: “Your dad must be very proud of you if he takes you to his golf club. He is proud of you and loves you. You can be sure of that.”
Joseph made sure that each of his little passengers arrived home safely. He made sure that their problems were solved on the way home, or left behind for him to solve. He made sure that each of them took a smile home with them from his bus. And I am quite sure that all his adult passengers left his bus with a smile too.
No one really knew much about Joseph. People in the district said that he lived alone and only drove the bus for the pleasure of the company of the children. He did not need to work, they said. Apparently her had built several racing cars and won numerous prizes. But Joseph the bus driver was a millionaire who loved children. He had a unique bond with them. No wonder that his eyes were always smiling.
Written by Ilona Kumlik
Don’s thoughts on Prairie Home Companion
Mention of this great movie in your newsletter prompted me to agree with your praise of it and brought back memories of what radio was like prior to the introduction of television in Australia in 1956.
All metro radio stations (and many country stations) had an auditorium where live shows were presented in the form of quizzes, talent quests, sport, sing-along’s etc.... Day to day programming featured a ‘Women’s Session’ Monday to Friday from 9.00am –noon and most of the commercials were live to air. You can see that I am getting carried away with nostalgia! To all old broadcasters Prairie Home Companion would most certainly have struck a chord.
The Philip Brady/Bruce Mansfield 6.00–Midnight show on 3AW, Melbourne, Monday to Friday has some similarities to earlier radio days.
Don H., Malvern
My Diagnosis by Maxine Marston ©2004
I have just been diagnosed as suffering from Dysania.
Starting from my early teens I knew there was something wrong with me. Doctors told me regularly that it was nothing and that I would grow out of it, but I personally knew that wasn't true. Symptoms were the same every day, only some days they were worse than others. It was extremely bad during holidays, as I have just discovered. In fact it can be down right embarrassing at times if someone decides to visit early in the morning.
The thought of three months travelling in a caravan in warm weather made me consider the problem and look for an answer. Greg in all his loving wisdom told me to sleep on it, but that wasn't the answer I needed; something drastic was required
After many hours of clinical research I finally found the answer; I would have to get a loud alarm clock and put it out of reach, so that I would have to get out of bed to turn it off and then stay out of bed.
Yes, it really is a problem when you have difficulty getting up in the mornings.
Plight of the Desert Horses by Jill Mather ©2003
Out of the desert they came. 90 wild brumbies. Identified "Walers" all bound for the saleyards in Alice Springs. All but 12 were slaughtered on the eve of the 100th Australian Light Horse Anniversary and Anzac Day 2003.
This massacre of "Walers" must surely strike at the heart of all RSL members, their families and animal lovers as these horses are direct descendants of the military horses used in the 1800's, the Boer War and World War 1.
This is the subject of a short film that traces the remarkable journey of the remaining 12.
David Lord, (who runs the Vision O video film studio at the Central Coast NSW combined TAFE and Newcastle University Campus) and I agreed that the transport of the 12 brumbies from the Northern Territory to the Central Coast - a journey covering not hundreds, but thousands of miles - merited our attention.
We filmed the foals ... all 10 of them were yearlings or less, with only two mature mares.
It had caught the attention of ABC Stateline program where Quentin Dempster relayed the demise of the horses.
It had also attracted the attention of the local newspaper which in turn created a flurry of interest from local horse lovers who flocked to Glenworth Valley at Peats Ridge, less than an hour from Sydney. Everybody was concerned about the welfare of these remarkable animals.
Why remarkable you might well ask?
The term "Waler" does not denote a specific breed. Indeed it is a generic term used for a particular breed of the Australian Stockhorse. A mix of English thoroughbred, Spanish, Arab, Timor pony and Welsh Mountain pony. "Waler" was a term used to describe a horse that was ideal for military purposes. These 12 horses are genetically identified and certified "Walers" having maintained a true breeding lineage for 100 years.
There are less than 1% of wild horses that can make this claim.
David Gillett from the Brumby Protection Group explained how the horses were rescued, what role the Protection Group had played in raising the $4000 transport costs and their role in assuring the horses were adopted to good homes.
The condition of the foals was on the whole remarkably good for animals that had been considered by the slaughter house in Alice Springs as too lean and poorly to be turned into cat and dog meat. Two of the younger foals caused concern. Both were under six months old. Their mothers dead. Sadly one foal died after a week of intensive care.
The film traces the gentling needed to obtain the trust of the handlers, right up to the adoption process.
Enquiries regarding the film: or
( Senior Citizen) Jill Mather is a former feature writer/journalist, playwright, script writer and teacher. David Lord is a film maker, educationalist and specialist teacher.)
Moving in with the Kids
My mum and dad, 75 and 80 years young, decided they needed a bit of extra help in their elder years but still wanted to be independent. So they asked to moved in with us in a granny flat out the back; we have 5 acres.
This was in February 2002, so we are still in the settling in stage: changing doctors, sorting out furniture, planting trees and shrubs, building fences to separate their dog from ours, etc.
They no longer drive so I (daughter) take them shopping, outings, doctors, church, etc.
Thing is, I am also a foster parent. I have four long term children aged between four years and 13 years, two sons in their 20’s still at home, two grandchildren that visit and a nephew who needed a place to stay. So we are a large family and fitting in the car sometimes is a problem, but usually the older lads do their own thing and so we can all fit in the Landcruiser.
I was just at the stage where the little ones were almost all off to school, time was my own again, after raising four children of my own and then repeating it with hundreds of foster children and settling to raise four more foster boys from babies as my own. I no longer had to watch the kids constantly in case they hurt themselves, or make sure they ate properly or fitted the car out with car seats etc.
But now I find I have a need for rails in the toilet and shower, in case someone falls and hurts themselves, car seats adjusted just so, to cater for bad backs and not quite working properly legs. Walkers instead of pushchairs, and I always have to check that the door is shut properly on the car.
The kids all love their new Grandma and Grandad, and they in turn have someone to talk to, entertain, walk with, and simply spend time with. They spend time each day listening to the kids read their books from school and help with homework. But they can also say "better go home to mum as Grandma is tired now."
The four year old walks with Grandad to the letter box each day, exercise for him and enjoyment for both. If Grandad trips or is tired, the child yells at the top of his voice, "Mummy, Grandad needs you." Even at his age he knows that sometimes Grandad’s legs don’t work properly and he needs help.
If Grandma is too tired to cook, they will simply come over and eat with the rest of the family. They spend as much or as little time with the extended family as they want, knowing help and company is there when needed or wanted.
Today, Grandma was doing the washing. She forgets she is no longer as strong as she was and tripped down a small step while carrying a basket load of clean washing ready to hang on the line. Grandad was only a few feet away, but couldn’t move quickly enough to save her from landing face first in the dirt of the newly dug garden, washing going everywhere. He couldn’t bend over on his wonky legs to pick her up, she couldn’t get up as she was all tangled up in washing and the wind knocked out of her. So Grandma gets on her knees, Grandad holds onto a house veranda pole, extends his arm out to her so she could pull herself up without pulling him over in the process.
They managed with combined help to sort out the problem, but if it was a slip on a bathroom floor or if one of them wasn’t around at the time, it might have been a long time before help came along if they were not here with me.
I love my mum and dad and would never regret having them live with us. It takes a bit of adjusting on both sides as they are used to peace and quiet, not a bustling noisy busy household. But peace and quiet can sometimes mean loneliness, fear and ill health.
I did not get to the time when it was only myself and my husband to look after so don’t miss it, but some day it could be me falling down with no-one to help pull me up. I hope with the experience of a large extended family, four generations under the one roof most of the time, that my own children will realize that we all get old and the experience and wisdom and love that the elder generation has is invaluable.
Bonnie,
Mother, daughter, wife, aunt, foster mum.........and loving it.
I Hated My Name by Daphne Hargreaves
My fate was sealed twenty-one years before I was born. It was at the time of my mother's birth.
My grandmother had longed to give her first born daughter the name Daphne. Her husband would have none of it, instead the baby was named Elsie Eileen. This name, my grandfather's choice, he registered before my grandmother was discharged from hospital - she was not even a party to the naming of the baby she had just given birth to!
As my mother grew up, my grandmother told her the story of how she was named. She instilled in her daughter the desire to use the name Daphne, should she bear a daughter of her own.
Thus it was predetermined.
I was born at 6a.m.on a glorious June morning in England. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, all was well in my mother's world; Daphne had arrived. Why couldn't my father have been more assertive? It was many years later that he admitted that he didn't really like my name but since my mother was so set on it he just 'let her have her own way' or so he said.
So there I was, a little girl growing up with a name that was not of her generation but of her mother's. Certainly, no other child in my school shared my name.
I hated my name - especially as a teenager. Eventually I married and it wasn't until after the wedding that I realised my husband didn't like my name either. Very soon after our marriage, we attended a function held by my husband's company. Imagine my dismay when my husband began introducing me to his colleagues as 'the wife'.
My grandfather, my father, my husband - all the significant males in my life did not like my name. So it will come as no surprise to hear that, as time went by, I managed to build up quite an inferiority complex about it. In fact I always mumbled when asked my name resulting in people greeting me as Stephanie, or Bethany. Even TV programs seemed to join the conspiracy. Whenever the script called for a frustrated, shriveled up, mean, miserable or an insufferably snobbish character-there she was - that Daphne character again! More often than not her character would be that of a spinster aunt.
Then fate dealt me a trump card . . . we decided to migrate to Australia. I could change my given name, as far as I knew, not even a deed poll would be necessary. We didn't know a single soul in Australia - nobody would have to be told - what an opportunity!
With the packing done and the long sea voyage over, we found ourselves at last, on Australian soil.
Then something very strange happened. In the hustle and bustle, I forgot to change my name and by this time too many people knew me as Daphne. Even more odd, the conspiracy had reversed itself somehow. My new neighbour said 'I do like your name, is it English? We don't hear it much over here.' It happened again when I went for a job interview, the receptionist commented favourably on my name.
I think I will keep my name - I will keep my name, Daphne - hmmm - it's a fine name. Especially for a budding author!
The Optimist by Kaye Brown
It was my brother's 60th. A senior at last and pessimistic was he!
"Where's your birthday cake?" mother queried. "I don't need a cake Mum. My family and friends are here and that's enough," came the somewhat gloomy reply.
"Don't worry," she comforted. "You bought me a cake for my 80th and I'll make darn sure I buy you one for yours!" Ever the optimist!
Strange, how we remember people for their little sayings and habits. Something she wanted to buy... "Gee! That's cheap!" Something she enjoyed... "All that your heart could desire!" At a barbeque... "Never say no to a sausage!" After the death of someone she really didn't like... "That's the end of that old b......!"
Aged 85 and after a few falls, it was suggested to mum that a walking-stick may be a good idea. She was incensed! That very week, we stood nearby an elegant, elderly lady, who was using just that. I quietly whispered, "Look mum, that lady's using a stick." Never one to lower the voice, she retorted, "Well! If ever I look as old as that, I'll get one!" On another occasion, spying a man close-by who was wearing a cap, she announced.. "I bet he's bald under that!"
At 87, ill health prevailed. During her final week, hospitalised and battling for breath, she remained ever observant. As some old codger shuffled past the ward door,she whispered..."He's..not..a..bad..lookin' ..bloke." Optimistic to the end.
Now, I join the senior ranks and realise that things could change if I permit them to. For example, there are craft patterns - and patterns for seniors! Does this mean we are limited to the latter. No girls! As one little grand-daughter recently remarked, "You're just a kid who got big, aren't you!" I do hope so!
Perhaps the old saying 'Like mother, like daughter' is true. Not unlike a child, my mother Molly was full of imagination and optimism. So long as I'm healthy, can find something to laugh about and my hobbies still include breakfast, lunch and dinner, I intend to remain optimistic forever!
