I saw a wonderful article in the Bugle about ‘Picks and flicks’ in the Town Hall in Gerringong recently. It got me thinking about those times. I would love to take the liberty of sharing some of these with you.Going to the movies was an Australian tradition 50+ years ago. TV was fine and I must admit I spent a lot of time watching Phantom Agents, The Samurai , Combat, The Monkees, Green Acres, Astro Boy and the like.But TV 50 years ago was black and white and anyway, watching big movies like The Battle of Britain just did not look the same on the small screen. It was also the idea of going out. Going to the pictures on a Saturday night was an event.There wasn’t much else to do. Yes, for a child growing up in Gerringong you could go to the Scouts and play cricket but really it was quiet during the school term. Growing up in Gerroa was even worse. Most of Gerroa 50+ years ago consisted of old fibro holiday homes. The shop would open for 15 minutes a day. A mad maniac with a machine gun would not have much effect as no-one would even notice he was there.You did have the beach of course. And yes, like everybody else I had a ‘plank’. I think they call them longboards now. You could catch a wave at Gerroa and have time to ‘walk the plank’ and ‘hang 5’. Reminds me of the song Hanging 5 by the Delltones. You needed two people to carry it down to the beach if you were just a kid.But come that magical period when the old school bell stopped ringing, during Christmas, and the place would come alive. Suddenly you could not even get on the road because there were so many cars, usually with caravans attached. The holiday places filled up and beaches were full of tourists enjoying the sun and surf. Locals would stock up just before the holidays started and hunker down on the farm until the tourists went home.And yes, these tourists were looking for something to do at nighttime with their families, as well as the local youngsters. This is where the Gerringong Town Hall and Harry and Mary Waghorn joined together to provide that.The Gerringong Town Hall is an imposing building, as I suppose all town halls are. All the big events were there. There was a stage with seating facing it. It was next door to the Gerringong Public School and in those days one of my fondest memories was performing on that stage in the annual school concert. I remember I was a thief reading Santa’s workshop.But the screen for movies was on the back wall and the seating had to be turned around. To fit more paying customers seating was put up on the stage so you might be watching a movie in the ‘stalls’. I have never really thought about how hard it must have been to move theose seats up and down the stairs.During the holiday season a movie was on every night and most of them were the ‘big’ movies for the year. As I said above, I was enthralled watching Luftwaffe planes flying across the English Channel before being jumped by Spitfires in big, bold colour set to inspirational music. My sister Merelyn fondly remembers Psycho, the James Bond movies, A Nun’s Story, and the 10 Commandments. The list goes on.A pamphlet was produced listing all the movies for the week, so you could plan your viewing pleasure. There was also a poster board out the front of the hall, about where the street library is now, with billboard posters of the movies.Every night a large crowd would gather outside the hall waiting to buy a ticket to go in. Most of the customers had a curious red glow about them due to the endless days at the beach. Naughty boys and girls would roll Jaffas down the floor. Mind you, Harry Waghorn ran a tight ship and they would get short shrift. It was a place where you took your best girl on a date and hoped to get the chance to hold hands. Nothing else mind you.Athol Noble’s general store. A place to grab a bite during Interval. They also made school lunches for Gerringong PS. Athol Noble collectionThere would always be an interval when you went to the movies in those days. People would stand at the door to the hall handing out passes. You could then go up the road to a ‘milk bar’ at Athol Noble’s store, which was roughly opposite the Anglican Church, or over the street to Aunty Connie’s where the surf shop is now. They opened specially on film nights to catch the moviegoers. Like all moviegoers for the last 100 years you would fill up on junk that you never dreamt of buying normally.On Sunday nights they would show ‘special’ films that youngsters like me weren't allowed to watch. When I got to the required age I went along to a couple and to tell you the truth, I could not see what the fuss was all about.And then at the end of January, it all came to an end. The crowds all got back into their cars, and maybe hooked a caravan on as well, and went back to wherever they came from. And sleepy Gerringong and Gerroa went back to being……well…..sleepy. At least until we did it all again next Christmas. 

This 1977 voting leaflet from Margaret Atkinson is a testament to the power of women in local politics. At a time when female representation on councils was scarce, Margaret stood as a candidate to represent women’s views, proudly independent of political parties and group affiliations. She championed balanced representation and active community participation in local governance, highlighting her roles as a mother, a worker, and a volunteer.It’s disheartening to reflect on how far we still have to go. Despite trailblazers like Margaret, women on the previous council—75% of them—faced despicable treatment, which has clearly discouraged many from putting their hand up again for public office. This treatment has undeniably impacted women's confidence in standing for council positions, an issue that needs addressing urgently.Margaret’s story should inspire women in our electorate to step forward once again, to claim their place at the table, and to ensure that the values she stood for—fair representation, community involvement, and a commitment to service—are not lost in the noise of modern-day politics. If we don’t take action to support and encourage women in leadership, we risk silencing the very voices that push for equity and progress in our community.

I don’t think any person can claim that a visit to the dentist is a pleasant experience. My mother, God love her, took a lot of fluoride tablets when she was pregnant, and consequently visits in my early childhood were relatively pain free. Fluoride added to drinking water these days also helps.However, you may shudder hearing about the experiences of people going to the dentist 100 years ago. It is all a true story according to my father, local historian Clive Emery.Half a century ago he wrote that his own father “was a wiz” if we ever got sick with home remedies but there was one thing he could not cure, and that was toothache; sore throats were fixed by a dusting of ground alum.  But the former required the attention of a dentist, if a mouth wash of baking soda failed to effect a cure.He wrote that in such circumstances his mother, our grandmother, mother would convince his father, my grandfather, that it was necessary to take us to the dentist, John E. King in Kiama.   His surgery was in Manning Street, at the top of a long flight of creaking stairs, and even a tearful appeal to Mother that the tooth had stopped aching, would not stop her from leading the offending tooth and its owner into the surgery, where an awful cocktail of smells, mostly chloroform, together with a howling child with a bloody handkerchief to his mouth and being borne out of the surgery by his mother. A kerosene tin with its bottom spattered with blood and teeth, was enough to convince the bravest lad to cry quits.But Mother would have none of it. Mr. King was the man to stop a boy from wailing all day about a toothache. She simply could not put up with the wailing any longer, and insisted Mr. King would fix the tooth.Upon examination, he always declared the ache was not the top tooth we pointed out, but its corresponding bottom one, so to prove he was right he pulled them both for the price of one. This wasn't a bad bargain when you look at it, but the repetition made a mess of one's permanent grinders on each visit.As it happened, we were almost anaesthetised before we sat in his chair. A short examination during which he adjusted his glasses before pronouncing a verdict which was always an extraction, we were invited to: 'open wider please,' while he advanced with the hypodermic needle and filled one's mouth with anaesthetic, and then took over with the pliers.A dentist/barber chair at the GLaM. They were interchangeable as were the users.In a trice there was a tinny sound as the tooth joined the others in the kerosene tin and would ache no more. Mother always brought one of Dad's big handkerchiefs and this was pushed into the mouth. She paid John and thanked him for his trouble, and it was down the stairs and into the car before it got any cold air into the mouth. Dad would say, 'another one gone', and start the engine and we'd head for home. It took about four hours before one's tongue was able to be used, or to swallow, for both throat and tongue had also been anaesthetized and were quite numb.Then the venerable John sold out to dentist Turton, who loved filling teeth rather than pulling them. There was another dentist named Denning who came to the Gerringong school and operated in the Memorial Hall. He didn't have a motor-driven drill like Turton but had one which he operated with a foot pedal and sent the wheels spinning with a string belt running on pulleys, and when he got it up to speed the drill was applied. In the meantime, he wrapped his arm around your head, so he wouldn't drill a hole through your cheek if it jumped out of the hole he was making for the amalgam filling.  If he happened to hit your tongue with the drill he said 'sorry' in your ear but kept on drilling. He must have learned the value of a kerosene tin during apprenticeship, for he too, brought one along for the teeth the students could spare.But I think my worst and most memorable experience was with dentist Mr. Butler of Berry whom I called upon in later years. Two days after an extraction my jaw swelled up and rested on my chest for nearly a fortnight, and when I breathed, I was accompanied by a swarm of sympathetic blowflies who were disappointed that I stayed alive!   After a month my mouth had resumed its shape, and I went back for another extraction, and I'm blowed if the same thing didn't happen!I was rinsing my mouth with a wash of Condie's crystals three times a day, and my tongue needed a shave, but I was unable to shave either my face or my tongue for the next fortnight!That was an experience I hope never to repeat!Fortunately, I retained sufficient molars to see me through, aided by a few caps of gold and porcelain, and the expertise of modern practitioners that would have sent Dad turning Catherine-wheels if he knew what they charged, for what he paid was in cold hard cash, and there was no such thing as Medicare, nor any redress under the canopy of Heaven!Those were my father Clive’s experiences of dentists in the days of yore, a recurring nightmare for every young person. So if your children are whining about a visit to the dentists, tell them they’re lucky it’s 2024.

The Miller family in Gerringong has a long and distinguished history. There was never any shortage of Millers around if you wanted to make up a cricket or rugby league team. In fact, there were so many that on one occasion a cricket challenge match was arranged. One team had members of the Miller family, and the other was ‘leftover’ members of the Gerringong Cricket Club.Hedley Miller was a great man. In 1982, at the age of 70, he was asked to share some memories he had of his own family and of the Wodi Wodi people, who lived around the Gerringong area. The story was published in the original Gerringong and District Historical Society’s first newsletter.Note that some of the language used may be inappropriate today but in no way was any disrespect intended by the author to any person, quite the contrary. Hedley was one of several local people  who had nothing but the greatest respect for the Wodi Wodi people.Hedley Miller: I was seven-years-old when we came to live in Gerroa. This was pre-war, about 1913. Prior to that, my father was farming at Robertson. When the family had to shift everything to Gerroa we used sulkies, drays, carts, and everything was loaded. I was entrusted with driving a loaded dray down Macquarie Pass to Jamberoo in one day, while the riders brought the cattle down the mountain to 'Terragong House' where the Marks lived. We stayed there that night and milked the cattle, and came on the "Wingeewah' the next day. My brother Ray and I went to school at Gerringong and associated a lot with the blackfellows that lived at Gerroa. There were two camps, one at Werri Beach and one at Gerroa, the Dixons and Bloxomes, and they were nearly all girls. Joe Dixon was an old man, a wonderful old chap. There were 100 kids coming to the school, and I remember them. There were as many black kids as white kids. Now, at the time, Joe had been timber-getting down at David Berry's mob and one of the cedar logs had washed up on Seven Mile Beach. My brother Ray and I helped old Joe to roll the logs across the beach to his camp, which was over the river and east of the present bridge. Joe put in about nine months of hard labour chipping and made it into a cedar boat. Ray and I were the first white fellows to ride in Joe's boat. Now Joe had a sister, who was a wonderful woman, and she married a fellow by the name of John Bloxom. There were still a lot of Bloxoms in the Nowra district as far as I can ascertain. The Sims of Werri and the Dixons and Bloxoms of Gerroa were all under King Mickey of Minnamurra, which was their tribe. They were wonderful people. I recall Louie, Joe's daughter, used to sing at the school when we were kids. The Moon shines tonight on Pretty Redwings was the one she used to sing, and she won the prize at school.The only water that they got at the camp was at Malcolm's Hill on the ''Sand Track'. At one time I remember old Joe talking about some weed or other that got in the waterhole on the Hill. They went onto Bill Sharp's place where the windmill was in later years and there was a good spring there. They walked to school, the black children and all of us kids, there was no bus to take you to school those days. We had a sulky between the Stainer kids, the Walker kids and the Miller kids. Sometimes, the sulky had nine in it. The black children walked to school and there were quite a lot of them.Joe Dixon was an old man when this happened. He used to keep wickets for the old Crooked River team before and after the war, I expect.The Sims were at Werri beach. Old Jackie Sims used to work for the Sharpes (my wife's father) years and years ago. His great grandson Eric Simms played for South Sydney. Their camp was under the big figtree at Werri Beach, everyone knows where that is. They did have some disagreements, the Sims, Dixons and Bloxoms. But they were under King Mickey of Minamurra. I remember Joe telling me that they could not have any tribal law at all unless King Mickey sanctioned it. Joe was a big man, too. He grew a snow-white moustache in later years. He was a very fine old chap, Joe Dixon. Wal Dixon, Joe’s son, became a pretty good footballer for the Kiama Rugby League Club.I would like to correct an error from the last issue’s story on Gumboot throwing. I said that the chemist in Gerringong was Greg Wishart. I apologise – actually, it was Graeme.  

On August 11, 1859, the Municipality of Kiama was officially proclaimed, marking the birth of a community that would grow and evolve over the next 165 years. The municipality was divided into three wards: Jamberoo, Gerringong, and Kiama, laying the foundation for local governance.The first council meeting took place on September 26, 1859, at the Adams Hotel. James Colley was elected as the inaugural Mayor, leading a newly formed council that faced the challenges of defining the municipality's boundaries. In fact, the council had to reach out to the New South Wales Government to obtain an official map, highlighting the early uncertainties of municipal governance.Among the council's early initiatives was the establishment of a rates system - a decision that was met with immediate discontent among residents. Despite its unpopularity, the rates system has persisted and remains a cornerstone of local government funding.Thankfully, not all of the council's initiatives were met with such resistance. Over time, Kiama has blossomed into a vibrant hub of tourism, celebrated for its lush green hills, pristine beaches, scenic cycling and walking tracks, as well as a host of cultural attractions. From music festivals and artist trails to wineries, markets, and sporting events, Kiama draws visitors year-round, showcasing the area’s unique blend of natural beauty and cultural vitality.This thriving tourist scene stands in stark contrast to a rather scathing review from 1887, which described Kiama as “prettily situated, but one of the dullest places conceivable.” The writer did note one redeeming feature: “Just outside the town, near the lighthouse, is a wonderful freak of nature, the Kiama Blowhole.”As Kiama celebrates its 165th anniversary, it is clear that the town has transformed from a sleepy coastal village into a sought-after destination that continues to attract tourists and residents alike. Further information can be found on Council’s website: List of Mayors and Councillors 1957-2024.

Speaking to my sister the other day, she told me that Gerringong Church of England was having its 150th anniversary this year. Now I know that other people better qualified than me will be writing about the history of the church at some later date. However, I wanted to recall a funny moment 52 years ago.As a child the Church of England was a big part of my family’s life. I can distinctly remember going to church and Sunday School every Sunday. My Mum was poached from the Methodist Church to be an organist when she married Dad. You had to get dressed up in your ‘Sunday best’, clothes you only ever wore once a week. One enduring memory I have was going to Church on a windy night, as we have a lot of in Gerringong, and not being able to hear a single word the minister was saying.There were so many great people in the church community. Some in particular I remember were Tony Britten, a kind gentle, man who was superintendent of the Sunday School among other things. He lived in a lovely old house with beautiful grounds just out of Gerringong on the Princes Highway. Lauris Buckman was a lovely human being who always had a smile on her face. She lived by herself in what was then, the last house in Gerringong along the road out towards Weir’s farm. Greg Wishart was another that comes to mind. He and his wife Gwen ran the chemist's shop. He was a dynamic man and the sort of person you need to have in an organisation if you want things done. I seemed to recall he had a son who was a handy league player!The ministers like Canon Wesley Gurvin, Rev Len Harriss and Canon Dillon were men who did not just conduct sermons on Sunday. It was not a ‘job’, it was a passion. They were on call to administer spiritual advice whenever needed, for example providing benevolent comfort for a person at the end stage of their life. They always had a smile and a positive attitude.Back row G. Wishart, L.Buckman, M, Wrigley, D. Weir, E. Cullen, C. Emery, N. Parrish. Front O.Young, K.Johnson, Rev, L.J.Harriss, Canon W.D. Girvin, T. Cuthbertson, T. Britten. The Church committee 50 years agoBut of course this church was an integral part of what was, and still is to a lesser degree than 1972, a dairying town. At the Xmas party every year, little kids, including myself, would eagerly await the arrival of Santa in the church hall. We would sing Christmas carols and he would always walk in the door as we sang ‘Jingle bells’. It was consequently my favourite. I always noticed that Santa wore gumboots and thought they must be cold in the snow.Speaking of gumboots. Every year the church would have an annual picnic as most churches would do. It was a highlight of the year with lots of entertainment for the entire church and town community. Of course a big attraction was always the hayride behind one of the farmers with their tractor. But the church committee in 1972 wanted to come up with something a little different that year. Being a farming community, someone came up with the idea of a gumboot throwing competition.Some of the young members with Ivy Parrish on the rightOrganisation for this great competition began in earnest. A strict set of rules was written. This was not going to be a ‘hit and giggle’ affair. It was serious business. Maybe it might take off and even be an Olympic event!The church fair was a great success on a beautiful night in November that year. The gumboot throwing competition was indeed a crowd favourite with stiff competition for the glory of being number one. There may have been howls of laughter from the spectators watching grown men hurling a regulation sized gumboot like a hammer thrower in the Olympics but for the competitors, most of whom were dairy farmers, it was a matter of honour. I do not recall who was the ultimate winner. Maybe somebody out there in the Gerringong community has an old dusty trophy on the mantelpiece from 1972.Despite the intense work on the part of the church committee and the success of the competition, I do not recall it becoming an annual event and it quickly died out. I do remember reading, however, that Taihape, a town in New Zealand, no doubt a farming community, took on gumboot throwing as a serious sport and hosts a festival every year. The Anglican Church of Gerringong has a long history and has always been an important part of the local community. I am sure that it will continue to do so for many years into the future. Photo credit: Emery Archives

Life was tough 100 years ago but especially tough if you suffered an injury or became sick. When my Uncle Ivor was old, he told a story of when he was a little boy living in Lower Bucca which illustrates some of the difficulties faced. You have to realise that calling a doctor when you lived on a farm out of town was not as simple as ringing up and he would just pop around. Firstly, you often did not have access to a telephone in the house. Secondly a doctor may have to rig up the horse and cart, travel slowly on dirt roads across flooded creeks to where the patient was. Even if they had a car, it was not as reliable as the ones we have today.  On many occasions you were on your own for quite a while.My father worked in the bush as a timber cutter during the war. He recalled that serious accidents did happen, and a patient just had to endure the long and painful trip out of the bush for treatment. Childbirth for mothers to be, could be a nightmare.Two reflections below may make your hair stand on end but they are true.Ivor Emery lived in Foxground and Gerroa during his life and was, among other things, a brilliant cricketer in the Gerringong district. Ivor Emery: Our nearest doctor was in Coffs Harbour 16 miles away, and the nearest telephone in the town two miles distant, and thus it was first aid applied by either mother or dad, that had to suffice. Dad was particularly good at first aid, but if there was blood it shook mother up as she had to be his assistant. I remember having my little toe severed and the next almost the same. Dad applied kerosene and bound the toe back on and it grew quite well. Another time I was bitten by a black snake.The doctor's car was being repaired at the time. My uncle had ridden across the flooded creek for help - the bridge having been washed away in the flood - to ring for assistance. In his absence my dad administered first-aid before harnessing the horse in the sulky, and with me in my mother's arms, forded the flooded creek which rose up to their knees in the sulky.  We met the doctor in his car mid-way to Coffs, and he took my mother and I back to the hospital there. After some time I recovered.There were many accidents with workers in the bush. It was a significant part of pioneering. My uncle slashed his boot and foot when his axe slipped when log-cutting and nearby bled to death. Between Miss Gray and dad they attended him for two hours until the doctor arrived. They massaged his heart and administered spirits to his lips. The doctor wryly said that they had used enough spirits to keep a horse alive! My uncle recovered despite the significant consumption of the abovementioned spirits.Clive Emery continues with his memories:Clive Emery: When my siblings and I were young we suffered from all the usual diseases common to the schoolchildren of the day. Complaints like measles, blight, mumps, whooping-cough, croup, diphtheria, and sometimes constipation plagued us during our school days.  With four of us going to school at one time, if one caught the measles, the rest had to stay at home and mother, realising it would go through the house. She boarded us all in the one room so we would all catch it at the one time, and not be home for weeks on end. She was a good organiser, as time proved, and in no time our faces were spotted like a peewit's egg.  What with all our complaints and bruises I often wondered how we survived - the boys especially - because of the accidents we sustained. I think we only survived because dad was our doctor. (By a strange coincidence I have his elementary medical book in my library!)Perhaps one of the most painful things was a succession of boils I managed to contract on my limbs, and red streaks appeared at the nearest glands, be they in the groin or in the armpit, and they swelled. Boils had to run their course, and mother prepared hot poultices of bread and sugar to apply, to bring them to the bursting stage as soon as possible, when dad took over and opened them with his razor. They were so painful the limb had to be supported in a sling.At dad's judgement of the 'right time', a dish of hot water with salt was brought and the offending boil dipped therein until the pain equalled that of the infection. More hot water was brought and the bathing continued until the swelling burst and dad applied pressure to exude the matter and the wound cleansed with more salt water and bound up to heal.It was not until the advent of penicillin that boils just withered away.For bodily complaints castor oil was administered with the desired results, while cuts were healed by a single administration of kerosene, for that valuable commodity was responsible for dad's successes with his stock as well as his family - that and salt!’

By Clive EmeryJust another day in the life of a farmer - here’s a lovely story about Bobby - a calf that had to be hand reared. It was just a week since I had transferred all my cattle from the Blackhead area to the 'dam' paddock (so called because it was watered by an everlasting spring) constructed 45 years ago during one of the many 'dry' seasons the coast periodically experiences. The dam was situated below this eternal spring.I had waited to do the transfer of the cattle until a matronly beast had calved, and having observed the event was over and a little calf at her side, the cattle were called to the gate and admitted into a new paddock. They had hardly entered before they began to graze on the lush fresh pasture. Returning home, I marked down the date of transfer: 10.12.1995.On the morning of December 17, with breakfast over, I received a call from Vivienne Atkins of Gerroa to say that with the aid of her binoculars she could see a little black and white calf near Shelly Beach, and thought it could belong to me. I thanked her and said I would investigate at once, since I had recently transferred the cattle, and thought the calf could have slipped through the fence.The dawn found me with the cattle, and noted the mother and calf, which was pleasing to all parties. However since Shelly Beach was a considerable way off and the lady had taken the trouble to ring, I felt a thorough investigation should be done. As I crested the ridge and Shelly Beach came into view, sure enough there I spotted a calf resting near the boundary fence under the shelter of a small tree. Hastening down I found a little bull calf well and strong, and upon examination I found it to be a twin! It was apparent the Mother had brought it to life that night after the first birth, and it had slipped under the fence. The two calves had been born 600 metres apart!  Gathering the little fellow in my arms I carried him to the top of the hill to his mother. He could not have had any sustenance for seven days, and was indeed a hungry fellow. His mother was interested in him, but was not going to allow him to have a suck, and kicked him off each time he made an attempt to suckle her.I tried with the two calves, but she would only take her first-born and not the second. It was frustrating for all concerned. It had rained during the seven days, and her 'smell' on the little one was not strong enough for her to admit ownership of him, which is not unusual.I left them to become acquainted in peace, and would come over in the early morning, which is when mothers and babies usually suckle. It is a good time to be on hand to help.  However, the mother was still determined her second calf was not going to suckle her, and after half an hour with my help she consistently refused to cooperate.Gathering the little fellow in my arms once more I placed him in my lorry and brought him home to rear. My wife Elva was not amused at all at us having the responsibility of another baby, but relented rather reluctantly. It was twenty-six years since I had done such a thing, of which she was aware.'Bobby' I called him, and from the first moment he was an eager feeder, relishing the sweetened milk offered. I had an ideal shed for him in the back garden, and in a few days we became quite good friends, and it was not long before he recognised my voice and his own name, and would arise to welcome me immediately I called. While he fed he wagged his tail to demonstrate his enjoyment, and I massaged his back meanwhile, just as his mother would have done licking him, and he bunted the bucket just as he would if he was feeding from his mother.After each meal we would go for a race among the shrubbery in the back garden, with me leading the way. At first I would not try to elude him, but I soon found he could keep pace with me, and we made a game of it. I began to dodge among the bushes and he would take short cuts and catch me up and bunt me.As he grew stronger I changed his diet a little, and gradually encouraged him to eat grass and grain. I bought some calf pellets and introduced them to his diet by putting them in his mouth to chew, and after feeding time leave some in his bucket for later. Yesterday I caught Elva taking a peep at him over the fence and calling his name. She was pleased to see that Bobby was coming along so well.In time he was released into the grass paddock to care for himself, but he would always raise his head if anyone said the word 'Bobby'.I will miss him of course; he was so responsive, but one cannot go on racing about the garden like a madman, can one?

For those old enough to remember, this was a big moment in Australia’s history when 300,000 people in Adelaide gathered to see The Beatles. There were crazy scenes everywhere they went. Jimmy Nicol was the drummer in the band as Ringo was in hospital, although he joined the other three later in the tour. Jimmy had the best time. He could actually get out and walk the streets as nobody knew who he was. He got a gold watch and then disappeared from history.I was born in 1958 so I was only six but my brother David was nine years older and my sister Merelyn was seven years older so I grew up with the music. David had one of those portable record players and collected all the top singles.Apparently you were either a Beatles fan if you were ‘respectable’ or a Rolling Stones fan if you wanted to be a bit ‘naughty’ as the Stones were supposed to be rough, which is funny as the Beatles were not angels.The Beatles took over the music world in 1964.The adoration they received in the U.S.and Australia, and in many other countries, was unprecedented. Their influence on popular music in the 60’s was remarkable and that influence continued on for many years. I believe that this phenomenon will never be repeated.

So, your children are complaining about how hard life is nowadays. Get them to compare their life with this account, written by Clive Emery, from when he was a child about 100 years ago:The education of a country boy or girl is not limited to the classroom. In my own experience, a lot of learning took place beyond textbooks and school curriculum. Experience, a great teacherThis is an area where the country child had an advantage over their city cousin, as we discovered when they were visiting us during school holidays. Some of the duties we performed filled them with horror, like the killing and skinning of calves and the beheading, plucking and cleaning of roosters for the baking pan, but a quite ordinarily part of life in the country. The milk they drank came out of a bottle, and they shook with excitement or terror to be asked to touch a cow's teat and draw forth a few drops of milk.There were farm duties, which simply had to be done: the milking, the washing, the cleaning, the gathering of the cattle, the feeding of cows, of calves, of pigs and horses and the ploughing of land and the sowing of crops all done in all weathers. Not just on one day, but every day in rain, hail or sunshine.This was much self-discipline in getting out of bed at the crack of dawn each morning and dressing oneself ready for work. When the milking was finished, there was the separation of cream from the milk, the turning of the separator, 55 turns per minute exactly – almost one per second – or the butterfat test would be low. That was where I learned to count, every minute of every day. And so apportion time to my greatest and smallest task, which led me to believe there was not a minute to be lost and life was too short to waste a day, forever timing myself in all occupations.The understanding schoolmasterCalf-feeding time, with a dozen heads poking through bars of a gate, straining, eager, hungry. Two heads to a bucket of frothy separated milk: The bunting, the sucking of ears or fingers afterwards, the satisfaction of feeling you were needed. The calves were dependent upon your ability to satisfy their appetite, you were their master and that was a responsibility, a trust if you like, and also a joy! It was the same with all the animals and poultry. Each boy was allotted his own tasks to manage and to discharge.Breakfast on school mornings was usually eaten as the school bell was ringing. Neither my brother nor I was ever in the playground to hear it ring, despite our efforts. The schoolmaster never demanded a note when we sat in class late, and we were given time to copy the chalked message from the board. The only notes taken were to explain our reason for missing school days, and they were exceptional.Saturdays may be a holiday from lessons at school, but it was not a holiday on the farm. There were fences to repair, ferns to brush, tussocks to dig or cattle to muster – perhaps all four, depending on the day and the urgency. We had a boundary of about eight kilometres of fencing to maintain, and it fell to me most Saturdays to service these fences, carrying hammer and staples and a small roll of barbed wire, in case of need.Adventures in the mountainsSundays between breakfast and lunch were often spent climbing the mountain forests, if the farm work was up to date, we scaled the cliffs for rock lilies in the spring, called the Wongas in the dank forest, or listened to the shrill calls of the lyrebird, or sat by a mountain stream to wait for the birds or foxes or native cats coming to slake their thirst. In the grassland, we set snares where the hares had their running tracks and trapped the rabbits on their favourite mounds. We sat by the mountain moses watching the bees watering, and then followed them to their nests, often trying the methods the black used. That of attaching a piece of thistledown to the sucking bee to make it more visible on its way to the nest, with little success, however.Then it was back home for a quick wash and dress for Sunday school before milking time, walking another mile to the church; perhaps a chance ride with Mr. Rankin in his Sulky, if there was room, mostly not for our troop of four or five was too large. After the psalms, it was back to bring the herd in for milking.The world at our feetWe always ran a garden throughout the year, learned the vegetables and their seasons for cropping and harvesting, and were applauded for our results by the household in general.  We participated in exhibitions and competitions with moderate results, always striving for excellence in type and taste.We fished the creek for perch, mostly at night, with tiny lanterns with light enough to see to bait the hook, while the owls hooted, and the flying foxes screeched as they fed in the big Moreton Bay Fig nearby.Before we left school, we were ploughing fields, erecting three-rail fences using axe and adze and mortising axe, riding horses and laying concrete.We could identify birds by their call, if not by sight, and trees by their fruit, if not by their flower. We collect the eggs of the water goanna and hatched them on the verandah floor in the sun for a lark, saw the leathery egg begin to wriggle then split open and the lively youngsters make immediate haste to the shelter of a garden bed of flowers within seconds of their birth.The world was at our feet in the valley! It was alive with life, possibilities and places for experiment and achievement. We indulged in family and competition sports at every opportunity and read books by E.S.Ellis and Zane Grey, which whetted out appetites for adventure, believing everything was within reach if one only stretched out one's hand for it.

The days when 50 dairy cows were enough to permit you a good, decent life in the prime dairy farming country around Jamberoo have long gone. Geoff Boxsell, 84, remembers the days when there were 96 farms providing milk on a daily basis to the Jamberoo Dairy Coop.Now there’s ten. And the Coop itself has disappeared. Something of a local historian, agricultural consultant Lynne Strong describes Geoff Boxsell as a legend, a living link to the area’s colourful rural past.When Geoff joined the Coop as foreman in 1959 at the age of 20 after studying dairying technology at Hawkesbury College, there were 23 workers at the Jamberoo Dairy Factory and it was a central part of village life. Admired in the industry, Geoff worked at the Coop until 1985 when it merged with Nowra Dairy Co-op to form Shoalhaven Dairy Co-op, which involved building a new dairy in Bomaderry. As he explains, Jamberoo was unique amongst dairy Coops because it focused on producing butter, powdered milk for ice cream and sweetened condensed milk rather than bottled milk. Geoff’ remembers the profound impact of simple things, well simple from the vantage point of 2024, such as electric fencing, mechanisation, and the government run quota system, which ensured a continuous supply of milk throughout the year in the Sydney Zone (from Wauchope to Milton) but also made winners and losers in a tightly controlled system. As he recalls, the manufacturing would start up at 4am, and from 7.30am the forecourt was filled with the noise of carriers and farmers bringing in the milk off the farms building throughout the morning. “The coop employees would be upending the ten gallon cans of milk by hand. Meanwhile we would be supporting the manufacturing operations – the evaporators, the butter churn, the cream pasteuriser and the roller dryers for powdered milk.“When I was a kid, some used to bring milk down to the factory in a horse and cart. But a lot of dairy farmers used carriers rather than bringing it in themselves, the ones down at Jones Beach, East Beach.”Geoff puts down the demise of Co-ops to ageing plants, insufficient capital, and that the coops were owned by dairy farmers, causing a conflict between adequate payment for manufacturing milk and retention of funds for necessary works. Change, as far he’s concerned, was inevitable.One of the most evident signs is the disappearance of the cattle known as Illawarras, or the Australian Illawarra Shorthorn, which are basically gone now but were famous in the day for their rich colouring and milk production. Local agricultural consultant Lynne Strong wants to emphasise that despite the decreased numbers of farmers involved, dairy is not a sunset industry. “Those ten farms produce more milk than the 96 farms once did. After the deregulation of the dairy industry in Australia in 2000, the previously protected milk prices were no longer regulated by the government. This significant change exposed dairy farmers to market forces, removing the price guarantees that had been in place prior to deregulation and milk price per litre of milk dropped by half.“Our Jamberoo farmers were very very proud of their Co-op. We had quite a diversity, from large to very small farms. And the Co-op was an important part of their social life. They would bring their milk to the factory, then spend time talking to the locals, go over to the coop office to buy their butter. Everybody knew everybody. They could also get all their farm supplies there. “The odd farmer would go from the factory to the Jamberoo pub for lunch, it was a very social time.“One local character used to take his bull to the pub, it would stand at the door and wait for him. There were so many stories.  “These days it’s very very serious business, and you would never, never think of doing that.”Nostalgic as memories of the old dairy farming life are, for local historians and for the area’s increasing number of tourists it’s interesting to note that the south coast was one of the major centres for the birth of the coop movement which brought prosperity and certainty to the lives of many rural families.The very first dairy coop, indeed the very first agricultural coop in Australia, was formed in this area. A research paper on Illawarra Cooperatives by Mike Donaldson and Ian Southall from the University of Wollongong records that with poor remuneration from Sydney agents the 1870s had been tough on South Coast farmers. “On Friday, 15 October 1880, farmers met at the Kiama Courthouse and formed the South Coast and West Camden Cooperative and determined ‘by the instinct of self-preservation’ to revolutionise their industry with Australia’s first successful attempt at co-operative marketing. “Illawarra and Shoalhaven farmers immediately withdrew their consignments from ‘the system’ and sent their produce instead to the fledgling cooperative. On Mondays and Thursdays steamers arrived from Wollongong, Kiama and Shoalhaven.” The greatest agitator for the Cooperative turned out to be the owner of The Kiama Bugle’s predecessor, The Kiama Independent. Originally posing as an anonymous “Dairyman”, the then proprietor Joseph Watson used the pages of his newspaper to advocate forcefully for cooperatives. By the end of that decade the South Coast Cooperative was responsible for selling 87% of NSW butter, and the dairy coop movement spread up and down the coast. By the end of the 1880s more than a dozen dairy cooperatives were operating on the south coast. It would be more than a century, in the 1990s, before the Jamberoo coop would close.Dave Hall, a well known Jamberoo resident whose father was the local butcher, remembers the old factory fondly. “It was a real meeting place, because a lot of the farmers used to come down, mainly in the morning, with all the milk in cans. It was pretty social. All the people who worked there were locals. “We used to be friends with one of the farmers, and I used to go up for the milking. They would all put all the cans on the back of the tractor trailer, you could sit on the top of the cans and head through town. It was exciting. I used to love it. You’d never get away with it now. “The farmers are still around Jamberoo, but a lot of them have retired. Everyone knew it was coming.” And remnants of those vanished lifestyles, early hours, hard work, the smell and sound of the cattle you knew by name, trundling your milk cans down to the factory coop, the perhaps not so occasional raucous meeting in the much loved pub, can still be found scattered across the region. Times might have been tough, but they didn’t have to deal with the constant angst created by mobile phones, social media, nor the overwhelming feeling of scepticism which has spread across our country as people lose faith in their government, their politicians and their national identity. The pub is still there, the stone walls which kept the cattle in their paddocks are in many cases being restored, and dilapidated farm sheds still bring back that wonderful atmosphere of yore, a time of hard work and common decency.Jamberoo Factory Achievements:Pioneering Milk Quota System: Jamberoo Factory was the first to propose a quota system to the Milk Board in the 1950s, ensuring a consistent milk supply for sweetened condensed milk production. This groundbreaking initiative stabilized milk supply in the region and set a precedent for managing milk production nationwide.Manufacturing High-Quality Butter: Jamberoo Factory developed a process for improving the quality of butter by adding a bacterial culture, like yoghurt, to the cream separated from high quality milk supplies from local farms.Supreme Champion Dairy Product, 1976: Jamberoo Factory's bulk box of butter was awarded Supreme Champion Dairy Product in Australia in 1976, surpassing all other dairy products including cheese, milk powder, milk, yogurt, and ice cream.Innovative Spreadable Butter: Jamberoo Factory experimented with the creation of spreadable butter by mixing cream and vegetable oils, a highly successful product innovation created before it was legal, so it couldn’t be marketed. Dual Payment System: Milk destined for manufacture of dairy products was always paid for  on the basis of its butterfat component alone. In July 1965, Jamberoo Co-op introduced a dual payment system, the first operating in Australia, involving payment for skim milk solids content as well as for butterfat. The system is now universal in Australia but uses butterfat and protein, protein being the most important component of skim milk solids.

It is clearly understood that early settlers, both men and women lived a hard life. Something that is often lost forever is the folklore of the times. In order to retain some of this, we print the following anecdotes that epitomise the character and comradeship of the Foxground folk. Cedar-cutting was an early industry. Logs were felled and drawn over a deep pit or gully, where one man, Harry Stokes, as ‘bottom dog’ could saw all day, and then leap out of the 180 cm deep pit in a standing jump!    Another strong man, Frank Herbert, had been known to put two half-grown pigs in bags, and walk out of the Valley over Saddleback Mountain without putting them to the ground.            Pat O’Keeffe spent the whole of his long working life testing milk at the factory, smelling and /or tasting hundreds of thousands of cans of untreated milk. Let it not be said that milk is harmful - he lived to be 98.Pat knew his job, and once rejected a supplier's milk for two days in a row for a foreign odour until it was discovered one cow in the herd was grazing a patch of garlic.    One farmer who hailed from South Africa used to cool his can of cream in a well overnight, raising the lid for ventilation. During the night his greyhound pup knocked the lid off and fell into the cream.The farmer had to rush to rescue said pup. It came out covered in cream. Telling his story, he was asked what he did with the cream. ‘Well, I scraped him down and put the lid on and sent the cream to the factory, of course.’ It was hoped Pat didn’t taste that one! Nearly every wedding in those times was celebrated with a tin-kettling. Neighbours and friends would foregather at the home of the newly-weds and serenade them by banging tins and billies and other objects that could generate noise. On one occasion the newly-weds would not open the door to them, so a wet bag was placed over the chimney to smoke them out! Jokes of all kinds were attempted, and on one occasion a young calf was put to sleep under the young couple’s bed. Like all young calves he woke up for a feed early in the morning, with a hair-raising result!      One early settler was known to have walked over Saddleback Mountain each Saturday night, to court his girlfriend and back home to do his milking the next morning. He should have brought her with him!         Foxground in flood. Date UnknownEntertainment was simple in the early days; corn-husking parties were held on nights with dances on the verandas or in the barns, to the tunes of an accordion. Card-playing was popular with the older folk.Bill Cullen was a proud breeder of red Illawarra cattle, and when one of his best cows calved one night, a joker took the red calf and replaced it with a white one, probably a jersey, to the shock of the owner when he came to inspect the newly born!A true story is told of a farmer who used to balance his one keg of butter with a bag of stones on the packhorse on the trip to the Kiama wharf. When his production required an extra keg, he borrowed another horse to carry the second keg and more stones! Surely it would have been easier..if..?    Late one summer’s night during the war an aeroplane crashed on Bong-Bong Mountain, on the rim of the Valley. In the rush to be first there in the pea-soup fog many got hopelessly lost. Close to one hundred men rushed to the scene. Len Flint and his party reckoned they climbed over the same log three times during the night! Doug Blow and his party arrived home late for the morning’s milking. They all wished the plane had landed on Cullen’s flat!Sly grog was made in the early days, in a still located in a mountain cave. One man used to take along a second can of grog with his can of cream to the factory. One day on being confronted by the police, he took off for the bush with one of the cans in hand - hotly pursued by the Law. In the hurry he had grasped the can of cream, and the can of grog was disposed of by persons unknown!A girl from the same still traded the brew to a Kiama Hotel and for years was never caught. She rode a horse side-saddle with a hooped skirt, with the bottles wrapped in a blanket inside the hoop of the skirt!         Stan Leaney was a great axeman, and followed the profession to the show-ring. It was said his wife chopped the wood at home!   When we were kids at the Foxground school, one of our favourite sports was to see who could be first to tease a funnel-web spider out of his hole in the ground with a grass stem. I still shudder to think about them. Kids were cheap in ‘those good old days!’  

The GLaM Museum in Gerringong has recently closed its Scouts exhibition. However, don’t worry if you missed it, as the exhibition will now be on display in the main museum for the foreseeable future.The opening was a wonderful event, attended by many former Scouts, Cadets and Girl Scouts. One highlight was a Queen's Scout from 1963 to 1967, Marelyn Embry. She arrived in her original uniform and reminisced about her youth, including receiving a letter from the late Queen Elizabeth II.Artist Trudi Voorwinden, who has been painting since she was 10 years old, spent a week restoring a mural of the Scouts in Gerringong. She carefully preserved the original colours and vision of the artist. Many of the Scouts depicted in the mural have now been identified, and the mural can be seen at the GLaM Museum.Merelyn Emery in her old uniformPresident of the Gerringong and District Historical Society, Colleen Jauncey, expressed gratitude at the exhibition opening. "Thank you to the parents who kept uniforms, memorabilia, and badges. They have enabled us to put this exhibition together," she said.David Hindmarsh, an ex scout himself, also spoke, pondering why the Scouts struggle today. He questioned whether it’s due to the electronic age, a rise in self-interest, people leaving the area for work, or perhaps the popularity of surfing as a hobby. Trevor Nixon, Neil miller, David Hindmarsh, Gary Rodger’s, Ken Mitchell, all ex scoutsHe also noted the historical gender differences in Scout badges, with women's badges focusing on domestic skills including ‘Matron Housekeeper’ and men's on outdoor challenges. David, who joined the Scouts in 1954 at age nine, shared a humorous story about finding frozen uniforms after a soccer game. He laughed, saying he is still tying knots to this day.Despite these challenges, there is still a Scouts group active in the area. Reuben Frost, pictured with his Scout leader Debbie and friend Hugh, meets with the Kiama Scouts at Kiama Harbour on Tuesday afternoons. New members are encouraged to join.Reuben Frost (Gerringong Scouts), Hugh Hassall, Debbie Gibson.This exhibition preserves invaluable memories and history, thanks to the effort of everyone involved. Their work ensures these stories will be preserved for future generations. Thank you to all who contributed.

Who have been the South Coast’s most significant women?That’s the question South Coast History Society is asking as it attempts to identify them. The Society’s search began at a local market when a lady asked its President, Peter Lacey, to identify the parts of their book, ‘Extraordinary Histories: Amazing Stories from the NSW South Coast’, that related to women from the NSW South Coast. This led to the inclusion of biographies of 10 interesting South Coast women in an expanded second edition of the book to be released later this year.‘It's a very easy task to nominate the historically significant men from the South Coast. They are well known,’ Peter suggests. ‘But coming up with a list of the area’s important women and recording their stories has been a real challenge because, surprisingly, not a lot has been written about them. And, whilst a little has been recorded about some pioneer women, the contributions of outstanding local women in the 20th and 21st centuries have largely been ignored.’A little digging has so far identified 22 significant women – the 10 being included in the second edition of ‘Extraordinary Histories’ plus another 12 whose stories are included in the June issue of ‘Recollections’ magazine.‘But,’ Peter added. ‘We have a very uneasy feeling that there are probably as many significant South Coast women again whose great stories we have missed. So, we’re now asking the community to help us identify other women who rightly deserve to be recognised.’ So, who are the South Coast women being featured in the second edition of ‘Extraordinary Histories’?They are author Charmian Clift, nurse Pearl Corkhill, pioneering woman Elizabeth ‘Granny’ Sproats, contralto Eva Mylott, carrier Emily Wintle, Aboriginal activist Jane Duren, ‘The Three Ladies of Tathra’ who were conservationists, shopkeeper Mrs Mac, newspaper editor Olive Constable, and world-renowned economist Persia Campbell.‘And I wonder how many of these illustrious women the average South Coast person knows of?’ Peter asks. ‘I suspect, for most people, it would be just one or two.’And who features in the June issue of ‘Recollections’?Four additional authors or journalists – Olga Masters, Mare Carter, Kate O’Connor and Jackie French; the soprano Marie Narelle; pioneer woman Rose Hunt; hoteliers Ann White and Sabina Pike; nurses ‘Kitty’ Porter and Bernice Smith; doctor Dagmar Berne and, because her death had a significant impact on the Eden area, Flora MacKillop who was the mother of Saint Mary MacKillop.Peter was then asked to nominate the most interesting South Coast women he had identified to date. ‘That’s easy,’ he replied. ‘An extraordinary schoolteacher by the name of Bridget Johnston. And I bet you’ve never heard of her!’‘She was the teacher at a one-teacher school in Eurobodalla village (which has since disappeared) from 1882 to 1927. Her boast was that no pupil, however reluctant a student, would ever leave her school without being able, at the very least, to write, read and be arithmetically competent.’‘Her abilities became widely known. Students were sent to board in tiny Eurobodalla, and one family even erected two tents near Bridget’s school so their child could receive his education there. One tent housed their young son, the other a female carer.’ ‘Bridget, being the only teacher in a one-teacher school, was required to teach all levels from kindergarten to matriculation. And every year, one of her students would receive one of four scholarships available from the local inspectorate, enabling them to stay at school past the Intermediate Certificate to study for the Leaving Certificate.’‘One year, her students won all four scholarships! So, the Education Department sent an Inspector to investigate. He examined the successful four scholarship winners, while Bridget took the remaining pupils out to the playground and conducted classes there.  Two hours later, the Inspector emerged, thanked and congratulated Bridget – the scholarships had been correctly awarded! Three of those boys subsequently became doctors, the other successfully completed an Arts degree.’‘Bridget married while teaching at the school. No woman when married could then be employed as a teacher unless ‘there are special circumstances which make her employment desirable in the public interest’; retaining Bridget as Eurobodalla School’s teacher clearly was ‘in the public interest’!’‘And when Bridget reached the normal retiring age of 65, she was asked to continue teaching…which she did for a further three years.’‘Eurobodalla village also benefited in other ways from having Bridget in town. She was a driving force behind the construction of the village hall, the village cricket pitch and the village tennis courts,’ Peter added. Copies of the free South Coast Women ‘Recollections’ magazine will be available from this week at all South Coast libraries. An email copy will be provided to anyone sending ‘Send Recollections’ to [email protected] information or to make a Nomination?  Contact Peter Lacey at the South Coast History Society on 0448 160 852 Or Email: [email protected]  Charmian Clift, one of the 12 South Coast women featured in the June issue of ‘Recollections’.

IntroductionThe Wodi Wodi people of the Dharawal language group were the main Aboriginal inhabitants of the Illawarra area, and a clan was centred around Werri Beach and Crooked River/Gerroa. Here is a great story of a cricket team, which was formed from the Crooked River area 130 years ago. It’s an important piece of Gerringong history.The formation of the teamThere is no record of the cricket club being formed, and the reasons why it was created.However, it can be surmised that ‘King’ Mickey Weston was the person behind the formation of the team. Mickey Weston was the Elder who oversaw the tribes from the Illawarra to Seven Mile Beach (at least) and he would regularly travel to these places. I imagine that he had a great interest in cricket and was keen to put together a team.Was the team just made up of indigenous men from Crooked River? It is possible, but it is also likely that some came from other places. There were mentions of Sims and Longbottoms in the team. The Longbottoms were prominent at Kiama and the Sims at Werri Beach.The name Crooked River was not always used as well. Sometimes, it was mentioned that the team came from Gerringong or maybe the South Coast. However, it may have been a convenience as I imagine the name Crooked River was not well known outside the Gerringong District.A sure thing is that one of the first challenges for Mickey was to get the proper playing equipment. One thing that is consistent with most of the games played was that the team would, ‘put on a show’ after the game. This might include a corroboree and a demonstration of boomerang throwing. The ‘hat’ was taken around to collect money from the spectators. Often, there was a ‘goodly’ crowd there to watch the match and the entertainment. Another thing that seemed to happen at most games was that the Indigenous team were always the visitors and, as such, were entertained to a luncheon/afternoon tea. Apparently, on one occasion against Gerringong, this did not happen and the players were most put out according to a letter to the editor!Apart from newspaper advertisements announcing the coming games, the first mention of an actual game report was from Saturday, 27 January 1894, reported in the Kiama Independent and Shoalhaven Reporter. Thank you to Trove.CRICKET.(From a Correspondent.)A match was played at Gerringong on Wednesday last between Mickey Weston's Team of Aboriginals and a 2nd team of the local club which resulted in a win for the former by 22 runs. The scores were:           GerringongA, Wilson, b Cummins ........ 13M. Hanrahan, lbw,b Sutton ... 7J. Wilson, b Longbottom........31R. M. Miller, b Button........ 0J. Fields, b Cummins ......... 0J. W, Francis, c and b Cummings3T. Hanharhan c Simms, b Longbottom......- ..........      0B. Johnstone, b Cummings ...  3M. Burke, b Cummings ........ 2T. F. Seage, not out .........8R. Gordon, c Matto, b Cummins.0- Sundries …                  17Total .....                   87Aboriginals.B. Hoskins, b Wilson .....,     4Sutton, b Wilson                0Walker, b Wilson ......... . .. 0W. Broughton, b Wilson ....     8Hunt, b Johnston                1T. Simms, b Wilson .....        8G. Longbottom, not out         51Judson, b Wilson ........       4Matto, c Fields, b Miller..     6A. Cummings c Hanrahan b Miller 5Edwards, b Wilson ...        . 12Sundries ...... ...... .       13                               109A Cummings appears to be a very good bowler!The next game mentioned comes up in the paper 3rd February in a game against Jamberoo. The ‘Gentlemen of Colour’ arrived with plenty of time for the match and were entertained at lunch by ‘the white fellows’. They were one player short, and a Gerringong white boy substituted during the game.Micky Weston’s team scored 31 in the first innings and 77 in the second. The Jamberoo team got 84 and were 2 for 27 when stumps were called.After this the large number of spectators were entertained by a demonstration of boomerang throwing. It was noted that the crowd was the largest that had been to any Jamberoo game that season.The visitors were then entertained at ‘tea’. A collection was taken up to help the team and 1 pound, 7 shillings and sixpence was collected. The next match was only a few days later at Kiama. There was an extensive report on the proceedings in the paper.   The next mention is a game between Gerringong CC and the Crooked River CC on 17th February with Gerringong scoring 128 and the Aboriginals 69. W. Sutton scoring 27no.On 22 March, the Gerringong Aboriginal CC, as it was called in the article, travelled to Shellharbour to play a match. The Aboriginal team won the game scoring 78 to Shellharbour’s 40. Top scorers were T. Simms and Joe Dixon, who both scored 20. It does not mention how they got there.The next game mentioned was a trip to Wollongong. A ‘goodly crowd’ was in attendance. The papers were all in praise of the Aboriginal team, displaying great skills. The team was described as ‘Mickey Weston’s team from Gerringong.’ The Aboriginals scored 36 and 8 for 25 and Wollongong 78. When they travelled to Comerong on May 8 to play, they were called the South Coast Aboriginal Cricket team. In this match, they scored 35 and 31 as against Comerong with 44 and 70.This is the last game mentioned in 1894 and the last mention of the Crooked River team. Mickey, however, appears to have put together another team of Dharawal men and played in the Wollongong areas in later years.Joe Dixon was the best player from the team. He forged out a career with Gerringong CC.

Gerringong has many facilities for people of a ‘mature’ age to assist them in their later years. These may include retirement villages or nursing homes. In some cases, however, nurses or other people may come to an elderly person’s own home to assist with daily tasks including preparing meals, housework and gardening so they don’t have to move out. Of course, many elderly people live with relatives through choice, but the point is just that: many now have a choice.These choices were usually not available many years ago. Care of the aged and infirm invariably fell upon the shoulders of family members. A single family member may have often had to ‘sacrifice’ part or all of their own life to do this ‘duty’. This ‘sacrifice’ was usually given freely and without complaint.As a Chittick, I can remember part of my own family history, which was pretty typical of the time. A family in Ireland on a farm in the mid eighteen hundreds. Dad died leaving mother and large family destitute, being unable to run a farm properly. Mother then sold the farm and left with all the family and what possessions they could carry on a boat to Australia. On the way out, she died.As a result, the eldest girl, Ellen, no longer had a life of her own. No marriage. No children. No career. No, her life was one of duty, caring for her siblings. All we have of Ellen Chittick is a photo and a Bible.Ellen Chittick’s BibleI remember reading biographies of family members which would often state that, ‘Auntie so and so spent the last five years of his or her life living with their sister’s family’. My father wrote a story about such a duty. And often the duty fell upon a selected female member of the family. His name is Clive Emery, and this is his story …It has never been my privilege to understand just what represents a level playing field in a person’s lifetime. How some members of a family can seem to have a dream run, lots of opportunities in work and relationships. Other members of a family can seem to have a life of duty and service. How inequities seem to appear, often through no fault of any person.Take the case of two maidens, sisters of my acquaintance who would normally work on their father's farm until they married.  At sixteen and eighteen their grandmother fell ill, and this was where the inequity began. The grandparents lived and farmed a long way from their neighbours, in a town 10 kilometres distant.They did not have the convenience of a car. The road to their mountain farm was rugged in the extreme, so the only connection with civilisation was by sulky or cart.  There was no electricity and no water, except what gathered into a tank off their roof. They called on their daughter for assistance because she could easily spare one of her two daughters as a housekeeper and companion for granny. But, which one?The decision did not come from the toss of a coin. It came from the need, and from their individual accomplishments, such as who was the best worker and could milk the cows the fastest! And so the younger girl lost and had to go and look after her granny and grandpa.  For how long? One month … one year? No, five years, until granny's death! It meant being parted from her family during her youthhood. Parted, too, from the comfort and protection of the family unit.It was five years of virtual imprisonment before she was able to return to the fold and be accorded a twenty-first birthday party at her home! How wonderful?! That gap in a young girl's life could not be assumed to be helpful, nor could an equation be reached to evaluate her loneliness - the escapades and jollity of family living, of sleeping in her own bed and the companionship of her two brothers, sister and parents! She went without a word of protest as a silent companion and carer of an aged woman. Try that for size! A level playing field, indeed!Then there was the case of my own cousin, who from 5 to ten years had to sleep in the same bed as granny. When granny died it was the first time she had a bed to herself!She always loved granny, she said. It was a mournful way to spend her girlhood, but at least she had the school days to herself and her playmates.

In the mid and latter months of 1942, Australians fought alone against 10,000 battle-hardened Japanese soldiers as they marched over the Owen Stanley Ranges in Papua New Guinea towards Port Moresby. Then as now, Australia was considered not strong enough to defend itself - but it did.The names of brave Australian soldiers who stopped the Japanese are carved on war memorials in country towns and outside of council buildings across Australia. We barely acknowledge their existence: Private Bruce Kingsbury (VC), Corporal Charlie McCallum, Lieutenant Colonel William Owen and Captain Sam Templeton, to name just a few.Winston Churchill finally relented to urgent pleas from Prime Minister John Curtin for the return of Australian troops from the Middle East - but not before Churchill tried to divert them to Burma.As the Japanese marched south towards the Kokoda Airfield, two largely untrained conscripted Militia battalions from Sydney were sent to defend it. These were the 39th and 53rd - approximately 500 men - called the ‘Maroubra Force’.Their average age was 21. They were called ‘chocos’ because the public thought they would melt like chocolate soldiers in the heat of battle. Most of the 39th were home guard. They knew nothing about jungle warfare. Many had never fired their weapons. Now these warriors of the working day were defending Australia.The mountainous jungles seethed with life. The trees formed a dark dripping canopy and the heat and humidity were stifling. Moss-covered trees lay over fast running streams as Australian soldiers, many born in cities, lay in dug-ins and waited for the enemy. Some shook with malaria while others held their guts, cramped with dysentery.The Australians held the airstrip against 3000 Japanese soldiers, lost it, counterattacked, but were forced back to Isurava, 10 kilometres to the south. As they waited for reinforcements, more enemy troops made their way up the Track.Just as it looked like the Maroubra Force would be wiped out, Brigadier Arnold Potts arrived with two battalions of about 1000 men: the 2/14th and the 2/16th. Potts was a short, tough and nuggety Western Australian farmer. He had fought at Gallipoli and in France in World War One and was a gifted military strategist.The head of the Australian forces, General Thomas Blamey – who was safely ensconced in Brisbane - kept directing Potts to attack, but to do so would have been suicide. The Australians were undersupplied and outnumbered five to one.The Japanese threw everything at them and pushed them further back. However, not before a string of extraordinary last stands, which yielded more Allied decorations than any other battle in the Pacific, including a posthumous Victoria Cross for Bruce Kingsbury.One of the last gestures of defiance at Isurava was by Corporal Charlie McCallum, a farmer from South Gippsland. This is from Paul Ham’s book, ‘Kokoda’.“McCallum sprayed the enemy with his Bren gun and when it ran out of ammunition, he grabbed a tommy gun from a dead mate, all the time firing in to the advancing Japanese. He was wounded three times but kept on firing. He killed 25 Japanese and received the Distinguished Conduct Medal. He died later on the track.”The Australians fought a decisive game of cat and mouse. They attacked, broke off and attacked again. This was the Fabian strategy, after the Roman dictator Fabius Maximus, who fought a war of attrition against a much larger army led by Hannibal. Potts knew the difficulty of trying to supply an army over the mountains. It was a lesson he would teach the Japanese.In the hour of greatest danger, the Japanese stopped. They had run out of food. The Japanese had relied on speed to capture Port Moresby and now their soldiers were starving and riven with disease. Potts’ defensive battles had exhausted their supply lines.Potts’ strategy and the Australian victory at Milne Bay, left the Japanese with no choice but to withdraw. They were harried all the way back to New Guinea’s north coast, where they were wiped out.When the 2/27th first arrived in New Guinea, it had 777 men. When it pulled out of Gona in January 1943, only 70 walked away. Everyone else was dead, wounded or hospitalised with tropical diseases.Potts was sacked by Blamey on 22 October 1942, despite having demonstrated inspired disobedience in winning the withdrawal. He later commanded with distinction the 23rd Brigade of II Corps in Bougainville.The Kokoda heroes believed in Australia and the future their country held. This is a covenant written in blood. Australians complain, ‘where is the vision? Where is the story?’. This is the vision. This is the story of how 1,500 men turned back the Japanese advance.At the going down of the sun and in the morning, remember Arnold Potts and the diggers who fought on the Kokoda Track.

Coupons and rationing are things many young people know nothing of, but everyone who is old enough to remember the Second World War can recall strict regulations on food and clothing only too well.Elva, of Gerroa, remembers rationing and coupons which we used to buy everything from sugar, butter, meat, petrol and clothes. Elva and her husband, Clive, were married in 1947 and Elva said her husband had to buy his suit for the wedding with ration coupons. “If memory serves, about 56 coupons were enough to buy one suit or one overcoat per person, per year.”“Clive had to buy his suit for our wedding with coupons and I was lucky that one of our bridesmaids had an uncle who was a lace importer.”“My wedding dress was made out of cotton lace and the bridesmaid’s dresses were made out of the same lace, but we dyed them different colours,” Mrs Emery said.“I remember sitting in front of a large tub with dye all over me and worrying that the lace might shrink or warp”“Even my honeymoon bedroom attire was purchased with coupons and the whole situation was quite traumatic for a bride-to-be,” she said. “When we returned from our honeymoon, we lived on Clive’s father’s farm at Foxground for about three months.“Like many farming families in Gerringong, we were lucky to have eggs, milk, cream and meat, but there were other items which were difficult to have a plentiful supply of because of the rationing,” Mrs Emery said. “There were four hungry men on the farm, Clive’s mother and myself and somehow, like more people, we had to make do with what we had. “One of Clive’s brothers, Clifford, had served in the Army and he was used to very big meals. “All the men on the farm were accustomed to large meals and lots of cakes and treats and unfortunately, they had to get used to smaller portions,” she said Mrs Emery said that the Gerringong community would always hold a dance or a ball whenever a serviceman returned from war, even if it was only for leave. “Those balls really tested the ingenuity of the ladies of Gerringong because women had to make do with the small amount of food available.“The ladies would have to make the limited butter and sugar go as far as possible and I believe we all did a very good job,” Elva said. Mrs Emery added that she realised Gerringong residents were luckier than most because of the number of people who lived on farms and contributed coupons for the dances whenever they could.“It is amazing what qualities are drawn out of people during hard times,” she said. “Everyone pulled together because they had to,” Mrs. Emery said.

After decades in mainstream journalism, and having written literally thousands of stories, there aren’t too many things I haven’t written about.But there was one story about the world’s last survivor of the Gallipoli campaign, Alec Campbell, that has stuck in my memory all these years. Alec lied about his age in order to enlist in World War One, claiming he was 18 years and five months old. Throughout his extremely colourful life, Alec used to joke that because he was in fact only 16 when he went to war, he could become the oldest surviving Anzac. But thus it came to pass. He passed away in 2002 at the age of 103. I was working at The Australian as a general news reporter when, on the occasion of Alec officially becoming the last surviving Gallipoli veteran, I was directed by the Chief of Staff to do a phone interview. Most people, particularly the elderly, are pretty chuffed if the national newspaper rings them up over one honour or another. Not Alec.In the first instance, Alec’s protective wife said she wasn’t sure if he would feel like talking. An old carpenter, he was way down the back shed “banging away at things”, as she put it, and didn’t usually like to come to the phone.Alec took his time, that was for sure. He hung on the phone for a good 20 minutes or so. And when Alec did finally make it to the phone, he wasn’t honoured. He was grumpy that he had been disturbed. My generation grew up during the Vietnam War and many of us are decidedly anti-war. As a young reporter, I was very reluctant to interview old soldiers. I didn’t want to hear their war stories. But the opposite is true. There is no one more anti-war than a returned soldier. They have seen their mates die in front of them in often pointless conflicts, and do not want to relive the moment, or see anyone else go through the harrowing times they themselves have endured. I found Alec well, taciturn; utterly dismissive of politicians, proud of his union background, “up the bosses”, and contemptuous of the military commanders who had sent his comrades to their deaths in their thousands, the terrible slaughter he had witnessed firsthand.Alec refused to march on Anzac Day until very late in life because he didn’t want to glorify a lie: that war was a noble enterprise. He almost never spoke about his experiences at Gallipoli. There were better, more positive things in life.He joined what was then known as the Australian Imperial Force in July of 1915 and promptly earned the nickname “The Kid”. He arrived at Anzac Cove in November that same year and was wounded in the fighting at Gallipoli. He caught a fever and suffered facial paralysis as a result. He was invalided home and discharged in 1916, a veteran at the age of 17. Unlike many Australian veterans, who never recover from their wartime experiences, Alec got back to his home state of Tasmania and simply got on with life.Alec worked many different jobs, as a stockman, carpenter, railway carriage builder and, in his later years, researcher and historian. He gained an economics degree at the age of 50. His love of life extended to an enthusiasm for sailing, and he also circumnavigated Tasmania.On his deathbed, Alec pleaded: “For God’s sake, don’t glorify Gallipoli. It was a terrible fiasco, a total failure and best forgotten.”He was survived by nine children, 30 grandchildren and 32 great grandchildren.On the occasion of his death in May of 2002, I was also drafted to write a story headlined “Tributes and praise pour in for an ordinary hero”.Then Prime Minister John Howard’s media office had done a fine job of polishing up the Anzac myth for public consumption: “On behalf of the nation, I honour his life. Alec Campbell was typical of a generation of Australians who, through their sacrifice, bravery and decency, created a legacy that has resonated through subsequent decades and generations.“All Australians will forever be in debt to the Anzacs. Not only for what they did for us, but for the legend, for the tradition, for the stoicism under fire, sense of mateship and all those other great ideals that, increasingly, young Australians see as part of their Inheritance.”Then Governor-General Peter Hollingworth said Alec’s death was an occasion to reflect on the passing of the generation that helped give us our identity and character as a nation.    “Having recently returned from Anzac Day at Gallipoli and Anzac ceremonies in France, I have a renewed sense of the utter futility of war, which was such a constant message of the Anzacs like Alec Campbell.” Veterans Affairs Minister Danna Vale said Gallipoli held a unique place in the hearts of Australians.   “With Mr Campbell’s passing, we have lost our last living link to the birthplace of the Anzac spirit, which is a great loss,” she said. “Mr Campbell and his fellow Anzacs fought with the kind of courage, integrity and honour that we will never forget. It is a legacy that will live on.”   Alec, it is fairly safe to say, would have been contemptuous of the political sycophancy that accompanied his death, and disapproved of Australia’s involvement in America’s endless wars, including Afghanistan, Iraq and now Ukraine. Lest We Forget.