AMY COLLINS | sexinyourseventies.com

AMY COLLINS

Mum was always a good and interesting listener. And I would bring home any newsy anecdotes from my work at the hospital. I was looking after ex-servicemen from WWII, who were suffering from lung cancer…in the surgical ward, after their awful operations to have portion of their lung removed. There was not much time to chat to fellow staffers, but once when I was on night duty, over a cup of tea in the wee small hours, another nurse and I exchanged information about ourselves. I had returned from abroad after furthering my nursing career and now lived with my parents within walking distance of the hospital.

She came from the country; her parents had been pastoralists in the Esk district…pioneers really. Over breakfast, I told my mother how nice it was to chat to this reserved, brown eyed older person, and that she came from Esk. I knew Mum had a history regarding that district, and was not surprised when she asked what was this nurse’s name? ‘Sister Collins,’ I replied, to which Mum started somewhat. ‘Collins? What is her first name?’ But this I did not know. We hardly ever used first names in the nursing profession in those days. I pressed my mother for more… ‘My mother died when I was four, and my father passed away when I was fifteen. I had been working as a chambermaid at the Club Hotel in Esk since I was eleven.

My father was unable to look after his six children. The older boys went timber cutting, my older sister went to work on a station down south, my father became ill and virtually lived at the hospital where he ultimately died from spinal cancer, and somehow kind people took me in and placed me at the hotel. ‘An older girl at the hotel took me under her wing…Greta O’Loughlin was her name. She was lovely to me, like a big sister. All our lives really. And I was happy enough.

My brother Doug visited me when he came home from New Zealand where he was working. We had a lovely photo taken together when I was fifteen. ‘Shortly after, I became very ill. I was in the hospital for weeks, unable to eat much, feeling terrible. They said it was probably typhoid fever, but later, with more knowledge, I think it could have been hepatitis. I went yellow. ‘When I was due to be discharged, I had nowhere to go. I needed to be looked after, and the hotel was no place for that. I became a sort of charity case I suppose. I have always been ashamed of that. But this kind woman who lived on a country estate offered to take me in until I fully recovered. ‘I was very shy and timid in those days.

But I had no choice, I was so weak, and I gratefully went home in the sulky with this quietly spoken, matter-of-fact lady. And a lady she was, very well-to-do, kindly but distant in her manner. I hardly said a word, but obeyed her instructions. ‘When I felt a bit better, after a week or two, I was to be a sort of companion to her little daughter Amy, who was lonely and had no other playmates.

I had to keep my room tidy and clean, and see that Amy’s room was tidy also. She was seven. Sometimes she did not want to play Ludo or Snakes and Ladders, and would try to paint with her water colour set while I watched on. She was better at reading than I was, having been taught by her educated mother. How I envied her that ability! ‘I was treated kindly, but my place was that of a servant, which I was so used to. I was given nourishing food, and eventually was fit enough to return to work at the hotel. A station hand drove me back in the buggy after a formal goodbye when I thanked Mrs Collins for her kindness. Amy and I shook hands. I did not ever see them again.’

‘What a lovely story Mum!’ I exclaimed, ‘Do you want me to find out this person’s first name? Perhaps ask if she remembers you? What should I do?’ Mum considered a while. ‘No Love,’ she said sadly, ‘Don’t say anything. I have always been ashamed that I was so homeless and alone when I was so young. I felt so beneath them all. Kind as they were. I would feel the same now. Just leave things as they are.’

And I did. But a couple of weeks later, it was my duty to hand out the pay packets, and there it was, typed on the little brown envelope, ‘Sister Amy Collins.’

ANOTHER GIG | sexinyourseventies.com

ANOTHER GIG She was so bright and informative when she telephoned, how could I resist? She had heard me speak on ABC radio, was impressed with my ready wit apparently (great!), had subsequently purchased my book Sex in Your Seventies on line, liked what I had to say, and now wondered whether I would be interested in being interviewed on video to assist them in the promotion of their venture, ‘Complete Aged Care Placement Solutions’.

It sounded okay to me. We made an appointment for the two ladies to come to my home, which was not that far from where they lived, in order to make a suitable video. They wanted me to be my usual self, entertaining and lively, something that was different, amusing, not boring. Something that would lift the spirits of aged folk, enable them to think about a lighter subject other than how they were going to survive, and for how long…or other dreary matters that pertain to old age. Yes, I understood. After all, I was old myself! And because the subject of my last book was ‘Sex’, that was what they wanted me to discuss…sort of.

If I could put on a cup of tea, that would be great! Of course I could. I was good at that. So I made a pile of toasted sandwiches after I had made myself as presentable as possible. And waited. Then the phone call came…her teenaged children had been using her new camera and it needed a new something…it was Gold Coast Show Holiday, the shops were closed…should she just come up for a chat? We could do the filming another day. She sounded nice, but I was firm.

I had allocated this time in a busy schedule. Could she not obtain the missing link somewhere, perhaps up here on the mountain where it was not a holiday? She would try. Poor girl, she sounded flustered, but I had confidence in her ability to succeed in this matter. She arrived with husband in tow, who was most obliging in helping her. I liked them immensely. The other lady had health problems, poor dear, and was unable to be there. It did not matter at all really. I knew what to do and could guide her through the procedure. After all, I had had enough experience! First of all, however, she must sit with us on the verandah and enjoy morning tea and all those delicious sandwiches.

Yes, she was ready for a good cuppa’ and I assured her that I wanted it to be good for her, that I wanted her to succeed. I felt she needed assurance, as this was new to her. But she rigged the camera like an expert and left the rest to me. I knew what my viewers wanted, and gave out with my performance. She didn’t have to ask anything!

They want me to perhaps have a monthly session, each time dealing with a particular subject related to the aging process; not necessarily about sex, but something light-hearted yet pertinent. What a good idea!

ANOTHER STORY, ANOTHER PERSON | sexinyourseventies.com

It’s happened again…someone trying to ram something down my neck, as if I am lesser somehow. I would not dream of inflicting another with my radical ideas, if indeed I had any. What is it about me that enables and encourages these people to thrust their ideas onto me? Do they do it to everyone…or just me? I can stand it for a short while, being gracious, trying to see their point of view. But not to argue and debate fruitlessly, trying to make them see from another angle. I do not wish to change them. But they wish to change me. ‘You are so good for me,’ they say, ‘you make me think.’ But I do not wish to use my precious energy being ‘good for them’. How nice if someone were ‘good for me!’ It happened with the Christians. She thought I was fertile ground on which to inflict her ‘good’ ideas. ‘We should all give our hearts to God,’ she nagged. She insisted that I should give my heart to God. She was good at it. Had all the spiel. I listened. She convinced me I was deficient. Perhaps I should do as she says. I was troubled in my marriage, discontented. So I gave my heart to God. In the kitchen one day. Amazing! I felt strong, decisive, not alone…and I left my husband! I am sure, in retrospect, it was not what God wanted, or what was best. Not at all. I was silly, easily led, gullible. It was my blind obedience to another’s will that led me to believe that in so doing I could obey my own weak desires and whims. Without reasoning the situation, without realising the consequences of my actions. How sad to be so whitewashed mentally, that I felt God was ‘on my side.’ How awful for my present agitator that he cannot see this in himself, that he is not supreme in his thoughts; that he is as fallible as everyone else; that he should, at least, be not blind to another point of view. He becomes his own cult. Spare me from these people.

ANOTHER STORY…The realisation has hit… | sexinyourseventies.com

THE REALISATION HAS HIT… I am totally ashamed of him. Totally. To think he would behave as badly as this. He must think I am pretty stupid…or think that he is being very smart. I can see now that he has been building a case against me. When I had the luncheon party for our dancing friends last week, he casually mentioned that I had given him until Christmas to find another place to live. I was quite stunned, as I had presumed that any such arrangement was between him and me. And I had not given him such an ultimatum anyhow. He has been leaving for Vanuatu for several years, notwithstanding any difficulty it might present to me. I have always tried to preserve his dignity, tried to consider his position, and go along pleasantly with his plans. I have explained to him that I did not want to place him in a stressful position, but with his mounting debts, he should think about finding another place to live. I would help him in his search, I said. I have maintained that I wanted to be kind to him. And now this! He announced tonight that he had a business appointment tomorrow at 3pm, and another at Aspley in the morning. Or is it the other way around? Oh, I thought, and I am cooking a hot midday dinner! Who is the other one with? Thinking it was another prospective investor. ‘It is a woman that I have met on the internet,’ he said, ‘And I have another one to see on Sunday.’ Good God! It took a bit of coping, I can tell you. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He tried to comment on the news on television, but I found it hard to reply. I have had a churned up abdomen for some time, and tonight I had felt a little better. Today I had attended a funeral that bothered me a lot in some ways, but getting it over with made me feel better somehow. But now I am feeling terrible. Hurt. Ashamed. Sorry for his children. No wonder he encouraged me no end to go on a week’s tour with an old male friend who means nothing to me. I am quite desperate for a break, as I have only worked hard living his life for eight years, no holidays, no let-up. So I said I would go. He was disappointed that it was for only a week, and this puzzled me. Now I know. Now I realise also that my going with Richard is part of his case against me, giving him justification for seeking women on the internet. And I now know he wanted access to a lovely photo of the two of us that is framed and hanging in the hall. He dismantled it while I was away and cut me out of the flattering photo of himself that he put on the dating site! What a creep! What a way to repay my kindness of the years… He wants someone younger no doubt. My daughters have always said this would happen, but I thought because our love-life was so satisfactory and I looked after him so well, cooking, cleaning, washing running his errands, entertaining his family and friends, that he would be with me to the end. He knew that this is what a sexual commitment meant to me…for ever. What a dreadful disappointment he has been to me. Serves me right, I suppose they will say, for taking up with a younger man, an attractive one at that. Funny how physical attractiveness becomes meaningless when an ugly inside is revealed! It was when he had the affair last year that our relationship fell apart. No more sex. No more affection. No more touching. I told him he had to leave then, but he begged to be able to stay, saying he still loved only me…a lie. I now know. He has been touchy and short-tempered ever since and life has not been easy. I wondered at his being so nice on Tuesday when he accompanied me to Jimboomba in the evening without complaining…did it with a smile, drove moderately, made me think if only it remained like this, it would be lovely. Now I know why of course. He has been looking on the net and feels guilty. It’s what happened with Liisa, his previous ladyfriend. He told me he was looking for love even though they were still occupying the same house. She had other fellows he said. I think she did, but maybe it was all part of the case. How I have been duped! And now the big question is, how am I going to cope? He feels he is on the verge of success, and I daresay can do without me. Yes, I have outlived my usefulness. I am on the scrap heap. This morning, we gardened. As usual, I loved it. He gives me one day a week in the garden as part of his cheap board arrangement. In the yard, he is perfect for me. A good worker, knowledgeable, strong and willing. It is there that I have always loved him most, loved our togetherness, felt fortunate and valued. I think he does also. It is there that I feel any pangs of regret. If only he did not have this mania. I could have wept the while. He will find, I think, that another woman will expect outings, a life. He has never bought me a cup of tea, let alone a meal. He bought an icecream cone once. He pays to go into our one dance a month, but that is because we use my car. We use my car whenever we go to his family, and he never puts in petrol. Perhaps I am well rid of him.

‘AUSTRALIAN WOMEN’S HEALTH’ magazine | sexinyourseventies.com

I was fortunate enough to be included in a group of notable women who were featured in the above magazine, April issue. The caption on the front page read ‘Life Wisdom from Women Who Matter.’ The photographer who was sent to photograph me was told to get a semi-serious shot. This task proved to be difficult as I am not a ‘semi-serious’ type! The poor man had taken hundreds of photos, with the hair stylist powdering my face every time I wiped my nose, or scratched it… when, of a sudden, I laughed at the situation, and he said… ‘Got it!’ It was not as he was assigned, but it was a good shot. I am very pleased with it, and am so glad that a happy photo was chosen of me. The lacy blouse that I am wearing is older than I am. It was originally the bodice of a dress made by an aged relative in the early 1920s. I have adapted and cherished it for thirty years or more. See this on page 89 of the magazine. Also see photo in ‘Women’s Health Magazine a full page entry.’

The Author | sexinyourseventies.com

I was born to a dairy farmer on the Logan River. I walked barefoot five kilometres to school at Logan Village, dodging meat-ants and savage magpies on the way. Later, I attended the Brisbane Girls Grammar School, where I aspired to journalism. I completed Year 10 in 1943, and won an Extension Scholarship, but World War II intervened and I left school to become part of the war effort, ultimately working for the US Army as a librarian (when I was sixteen). After the war, and having no accreditation, I went on to become a Nursing Sister, (a good background when you are foraging for someone’s personal details!). A year in England followed, where I obtained my DCM (District Certified Midwife) by riding on a bicycle around Boston in Lincolnshire in the snow, delivering babies and giving anaesthetics. Back in Australia, marriage and four children followed. At 65, finding myself alone, I upped anchor and established a Studio/Gallery on Tamborine Mountain, for by then I was an artist, creating oil paintings, enamels and my popular ‘golden bowls’. I wrote a lovely little waltz while running my gallery. It is called “Waltz With Me Darling Tonight”. We sometimes dance to it at one of the country dances that I attend on a Saturday evening. It gives me such a buzz to be waltzing to my very own music! I have the sheet music for it. One day, at 71, while making beads in my studio (rolling the clay, putting a hole in it, painting and glazing it, firing it), I was struck by the thought: Could I have done more? Forthwith, I contacted Griffith University. I was ultimately selected to enrol in a Bachelor of Arts course, majoring in Creative Writing and Indigenous Studies. Good results were obtained, and a reputation gained. If a student complained about the workload being too hard, the lecturer might say, ‘I think you had better talk to Doreen!’ Whereupon I would say, ‘Well, if it’s not difficult, I don’t want to do it! If every Tom, Dick and Harry can come to University and easily get their BA, it’s not for me!’ I was made a member of the Worldwide Society of Academic Honour as a result of my attaining a Grade Point Average of 6 out of a possible 7. During this period, I wrote Barefoot in Logan Village, an oral and anecdotal history of the Logan Village District. Along with others, it is my childhood story, my parent’s and my grandparent’s story; even the account of my great-grandparents who emigrated from Germany after losing three children in a month to diphtheria. Arriving on the Logan in 1884, they lost all in the disastrous flood of 1887, but went on to prosper in their new country. After gaining my BA, I completed a BA (Hons) Degree, my dissertation being “The German Immigration to the Logan District, Particularly from the Point of View of the Women”. It largely was written in my grandmother’s voice, from recollections of the stories I had listened to, at my grandmother’s knee. Of course, the hard part was applying it to theory. It was suggested (with some irony) during this time, that not much research had been done on the sex lives of older people, and that I was the one to do it! ‘Why me?’ ‘Aw, come on, Doreen! We all know you are in your seventies! We all know that you are in a loving relationship! And we all know that you can write!’ So I set about interviewing many folk from all walks of life. As Evangeline, I listened and recorded their tales. If I considered there was a lesson in the story, I included it in the book. Not everyone is interested in your love life. Your children probably are not! My children are not! My daughters are in the habit of asking me…threatening me… please don’t mention the book! Writing Sex in Your Seventies has opened many doors for me. I have appeared on television quite a few times, on Brisbane Extra, and again as a consultant, as well as in a very successful segment on Today Tonight, with me parading the streets of Surfer’s Paradise, dressed to kill, depicted as ‘Sex in the City in Your Seventies.’ I have done a lot of guest speaking, at Probus Clubs, View Clubs, Garden Clubs, Senior’s Clubs, Writers’ Clubs…you name it, all very well acclaimed. I do a ‘book signing’ at the event, my books being very popular. I love it. Some people come to the meeting with pursed, critical lips, only to leave laughing and happy. I get a lot of compliments about my ability to speak at my audience’s level. The feedback I receive is so enthusiastic. The adjectives used are superlative. How good it makes me feel! Some say they cannot put the book down. Others say they open it randomly when they are depressed, and read one chapter. ‘What would I have done?’ they might ask themselves. Or ‘What did I do?’ It is not smut. It is simply a ‘good, informative read’. …………………………………… For a detailed description of my earlier book “Barefoot in Logan Village”, see HERE …

BASTILLE DAY | sexinyourseventies.com

BASTILLE DAY Why should we not celebrate Bastille Day, the national day of France? We are the French class of our small community! Twelve or more of us, most of whom have been studying the French language for seven years or so. Some of us are not too bad at speaking French. We are from all walks of life, with all of us ‘getting on’ in years. We have a Yorkshireman who was once a ‘truckie’ on the Continent of Europe. He has many tales to tell of his experiences, and tell them he does…a retired restaurant manager…horse property owner…rock ‘n roll dancer…practising nurse…retired rancher…artist…impoverished divorcee…pensioner…several retired teachers…a Frenchwoman whose father was a Resistance fighter…and of course there is moi, a writer. It was arranged that we hold our celebration at the Hilltop Gallery, high on our mountain, with incredible views from the breathtakingly high enclosed verandah. It was my task to carry the Flag in its silver holder, and place it proudly , conspicuously in the middle of the table. A warm welcome from our Finnish hosts, and we tucked into the camembert and grapes, gruyere, French bread and butter set before us. Red wine flowed as we ate with gusto. Most of us were hungry, and there was not much food left on the platters. Good. Then came the delicious onion soup with grilled, buttered sourdough. Lots of it, with seconds, and all demolished amid good conversation with anecdotes of our experiences while travelling France. Some good stories, some bad, but all tres interessant. Our teacher quietly rose and put on a CD of La Marseillase, so we rose to sing with verve the gory words of the French anthem, our wine glasses aloft. A toast to la belle France, and the eating resumed. Dessert was being served. Tarte tatin was delectable with individual puff pastry tarts smothered with caramellised apple and syrup, served with icecream. Tea and coffee followed. A few little speeches, and it was all over…until next year!

BERNARD’S BASIN | sexinyourseventies.com

BERNARD’S BASIN I found myself on my own with three daughters, aged sixteen, twelve and ten. We found a nice enough little house that we could afford, and I had a small car, but I had never driven further than the Gold Coast from Brisbane. It had been almost a year now, and it was time for some sort of adventure. We decided to visit my sister who lived in Sydney with her very good, respectable family. It would do us good, and perhaps help them to understand our situation a little better. Yes, we would go. I thought I could manage the long drive, and if we were careful, my finances would stretch to it. Mind you, there would be no luxuries…everyone must understand that! I had an old flame of years and years ago who lived in Tamworth, and who, despite being married, had remained in touch sporadically. So I dropped him a line to say when we thought we would be in town, and that if he liked, he could meet my children. We would be staying at the Flag Inn, a very reasonable but comfortable motel. I thought perhaps his foreign born wife might invite us to their home for a meal. Dream on my girl! After leaving early on the first day of the school holidays, our packed little car ran well. After several hours, I thought I should take a break from driving, and pulled over into a rest area. We would have early lunch. I knew I was rather tense as I found the tea making equipment and set it out with some food. The others just sat there and waited for me to do everything! And I was the driver, who should be looked after! They were startled when I exploded, downing tools and telling them to make the sandwiches or else! First lesson learned well. When, some hundred kilometres down the track, my second daughter produced a packet of cigarettes and lit up in the moving car, there was another explosion, but apart from a few minor hiccoughs, all went well and we arrived at Tamworth. Our motel room was lovely, and there was a message from my old friend to phone him on our arrival at a given number. This I did, left a message, and he phoned to say welcome and that he would like to take me out to dinner. Could I arrange for the girls to be looked after? I was taken aback, but after consultation, assured him the older one was perfectly capable of taking care of the younger two…as long as I arranged some good take-away food. Right! So I was going on a dinner date! The three of them were very excited at Mum going out to dinner… It had been a long time since I had seen him. Since our single days. But he looked just the same really, and I knew I carried my middle years well. Neither of us had gone to fat, and we both still had our own teeth! He met my irrepressible daughters who were ready for bed and looked beautiful in their new night attire, and who were full of kisses for Mummy amid cries of ‘Have a good time Mum!’ They knew, God bless them, that good times for me had been few indeed. He took me to probably the best restaurant in town where he insisted I have baked trout, which I had never had before. He showed me how to lift the sweet flesh from the backbone. Then he announced that he would like to show me his home which his brother had designed. ‘It’s all right,’ he explained, ‘my wife is at friends’ for the evening. All arranged. She is very volatile, and would make a terrible scene if she found out! We are all used to her, and my friends are very loyal.’ He seemed to know what he was doing, and I enjoyed viewing the charming house with all its mod cons. He phoned his friend during the visit to make sure all was serene; we had a pleasant chat in the car, and he checked with me that the girls were okay. Then he left with a brief kiss. It would be more than twenty years before we met again. We headed for Sydney, the weather worsening, expecting to see my sister that evening. Fate intervened however, and as we neared Richmond, the menacing thunderstorm unleashed a torrent of pelting rain as we approached a decisive intersection. To the left was Sydney, to the right was something else. I was in the right hand lane, couldn’t see the sign, was too nervous to change lanes, so followed the traffic to the right, hoping to change direction somehow… we ended up in the Blue Mountains! We sought refuge in a caravan park, but were informed it was fully booked, it being the Rhododendron Festival that week. Eldest daughter Susan who was doing the enquiring, seemed to talk at length to the female park manager. She came back rather victoriously to our car saying if we reported at 5pm to the lady in the office, she could secure a van for us. This was great news, but how come? ‘I told her my mother was having a nervous breakdown,’ she replied, ‘And she said she wanted to get rid of a troublesome tenant. And seeing as we seemed nice folk, and my mother looked a good person, we could have the van for a week.’ I phoned my sister, telling her we would not be seeing them, and tried to explain why. Through the rather crackly land line connection I thought I heard my sister say something about expecting something like this… Leura was a delight. The weather cleared and we became part of the festival, touring magnificent gardens to the delight of Susan, a budding horticulturalist. Huge mushrooms were for sale everywhere. You could buy a large bag full of perfect specimens for two dollars! So we lived on mushrooms, fried, sauteed, on toast, with salad, with vegetables…and enjoyed the inexpensive treat. We roamed the public parks where I sketched the local flora, particularly the graceful weeping cherry, which pencil drawing I would later transform into one of my enamel plaques. There was this compulsion to capitalise on any expenditure by utilising the journey to produce the works of art that constituted my living. We wanted to see The Three Sisters by floodlight. These mountain peaks were famous, and on a chilly evening, I rugged everyone up in our warmest clothes; we ventured into the dark night and headed for the viewing area, promising the girls a wonderful sight! Terrible disappointment awaited us however, as the fog had rolled in, and all we saw was a wall of white, a dense white-out! We were silent as we peered into this murky stillness, perhaps hoping that our sight could penetrate it somehow, in vain. On our last day in Leura, Susan announced that she thought we should try to find the old O’Reilly place in the Megalong Valley which was part of this area. ‘Are you up to it Mum?’ she asked and of course I was. Susan had Bernard O’Reilly’s book ‘Green Mountains’ with her, as she usually did, and we referenced it as we drove in the direction of the place where she thought the old home would be. We followed roads, tracks, creeks, mountains and vales until she announced, ‘We must be close!’ There was a house nearby, and I knocked at the door nervously. ‘Do you know where the O’Reilly family lived…around here somewhere?’ I asked, but was politely told they had no idea, as they were newcomers to the district. A bit further on I had the same experience, and then we came upon a neat little cottage with an old gentleman hoeing in the front yard. He was easy to approach, and I queried if he knew where the O’Reillys once lived? ‘Yair,’ he replied, ‘out the back!’ And he gestured to the rear of the house. ‘Go and have a look if you like,’ he offered, ‘the hut is still there.’ So we all piled out of the car and followed the old fellow to where the old cabin stood, just as it had when Bernard was a boy. We went inside, to the single room with a huge inglenook at one end in which the children had clustered in the wintertime. We marvelled at the small area which housed the parents and ten children. We knew that the big boys slept on the verandah that did not seem very big at all. How did they do it? ‘They had a vegetable garden out here,’ said our tour guide, who was related to the family, and had inherited the property. There were bits and pieces lying around, much as it perhaps was when the O’Reilly family finally left for the Lamington Plateau in Queensland. Nothing had been done, it seemed, to tidy it up…which was a good thing as it turned out, because I spied half buried in the soil an old basin. I picked it up, expecting it to be broken. But no, it was perfect though crazed. ‘That would have belonged to his mother, the old bloke informed me as I lovingly admired the dirty bowl. ‘You can have it if you like,’ he said, ‘No one here wants it.’ ‘Go on Mum,’ said Susan, ‘You would love to have a memento of this trip.’ ‘Are you sure?’ I asked him, not wanting to appear greedy, to which he assured me Bernard’s mother would be pleased that loving hands were caring for her much used utensil. It is in my kitchen nearly forty years later. It is used regularly and referred to always as ‘Bernard’s basin.’

BETTY WHITE | sexinyourseventies.com

VALE BETTY WHITE January 2022 So Betty White has died. She was almost a hundred years of age. I remember, as a child, first seeing a photo of Betty on a cigarette card. Among a couple of others, I had one of Janet Gaynor, and these young women were so attractive to a ten year old, an impressionable country kid who was so ignorant of the rest of the world, knowing only the dairy farm of the early thirties and the surrounding district on the Logan River. Times were tough. The Great Depression raged. The meagre cream cheque was barely sufficient to buy the family’s wants, let alone luxuries, like cigarettes in a packet! But sometimes, there would be a young visitor from the city who would produce proudly a packet of Capstan, or was it Three Threes? ‘Have a ready-made, Harry,’ he might say to my father who rolled his own of course, it being the much cheaper option. I knew my best course of action. I must lie low. Just hang around, not speaking, just looking but remaining unobtrusive, almost unseen, certainly not noticed. The cups of tea would be forthcoming, scones and cream produced, and perhaps I would be asked to hand around the sugar. Good country talk ensued. The terrible low price of cream; the bloody drought; the cricket…and I waited. At last, the talk subsided and it was time for a smoke. Would Dad roll his own as usual? The visitor was a cheery type who insisted my father accept a ready-rolled for a change. Skulking in the background, I could see there was only one cigarette remaining in the packet. I was downcast. They chatted on…and on. Until it was time to get the cows in for the milking. I had given up by then, but as the guest was leaving, he fished in his pocket, took out the remaining cigarette, saying, ‘I do like a smoke when I am at the wheel…’ and looked round for somewhere to throw the empty packet. It was my cue. My hands were there, ready to take the discarded item. ‘What a good girl!’ someone said, but I was happy. As I ran to the rubbish bin, my little fingers had already found the precious card that I knew would be in the packet, and I was looking to see who it was…Betty White!

Beware! | sexinyourseventies.com

A chap in his forties came to buy a book. In so doing, he told me what had occurred the day before: He was a tradesman who, on his long journey home after work, pulled into a male public toilet in a rural area. He was relieving himself with some gusto when another male sidled up to the trough, standing precariously close to our burly carpenter. The other fellow peered at him, seeking eye contact, brushing against his body. Our man did not look the other’s way at all, just went on with the job at hand, looking at his efforts. The other persisted in leaning towards him, making whimpering sounds the while, which all became too much. ‘If you’re not out of here by the time I finish this pee,’ he said calmly but threateningly, still gazing with intent at his penis, ‘you’ll end up flat on the floor!’ The other man fled.

A Bit On The Side | sexinyourseventies.com

A male person called me. He was quite upset. ‘I swear it was just a bit on the side. I could see she was attracted to me when we first met. She was a bit older than I, but well preserved in that Scandinavian sort of way. I liked the accent. And it was easy. I had a good excuse to be away any night I wanted to. My partner and I have an agreement that I actually live elsewhere, sleep away for at least two nights a week. To protect my future property, when I come good, and also hers. She owns the place. And I needed a new venue. The previous arrangement had fallen through. So this offer came up. I knew it was for more than a bed for two nights. You can tell. I felt a bit guilty I suppose, having these ideas when my partner was absolutely true blue. I just could do with a bit more sex. It has always been the case. She’s getting on in years…so am I…and she can only manage once a week or so. Recently, there was a real drought, and it was once in a month…seemed like it was forever. Anyhow, I told her that I had a new place down the coast, a woman who had crossed my path recently. She looked at me kinda funny like, she’s like that, knows things. It’s unnerving, I can tell you. There was no scene, she just kissed me goodbye as she always does, saw me off as usual, and I must have broken the speed limit as I raced down in some excitement. I gave this woman the usual line of there being no relationship between my partner and me. She slept at one end of the house, me the other, I said. True really, but I didn’t say why it was like this. I knew it was because I kept such odd hours, very late or very early. I still lay on her bed with her, made love and all that. We get along well really. Just not quite enough sex. It took a few nights, but finally I made it! Got into the new lady’s bed and did it. What a victory! Made me feel good to know I still had the power. I whistled all the way home the next morning…but then my partner ‘twigged.’ She came right out with it, said, ‘You’ve done it, haven’t you? You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?’ I was so pleased with myself, the look on my face I suppose, the satisfied smirk on my lips must have told the whole story. All hell was let loose! She was white with anger. I held my own, stuck up for myself, said we only had sex once in a blue moon. She said that period was when I had been overseas, came back with the ‘flu, then she had to visit her family for a week. It might have been, it just seemed like forever. I challenged this of course, and that’s when I got the shock of my life! She said she could prove we only made love a week ago, and it averaged out once a week for a long time, ever since she reduced it from every second day. It was her cystitis, she said. I knew all about it of course, the antibiotics, all that. But she rocked me by saying that she noted it in her diary with a symbol. She could flip through the pages like an expert, saying, ‘We did it Thursday, then the following Wednesday, then …’ ad infinitum. It made my blood boil, to think there was a record of my doings! I said nothing however, just that I intended to continue my visits down the coast, and that it had nothing to do with her what I did on my nights away. I thought she might come under on that one, but she held her ground. She was upset as anything, but I have to admire her, the way she handled it. ‘Very well then,’ she firmly said, ‘you’ll have to take all your things and move in with your new lady! Lock, stock and barrel!’ ‘But I don’t want to do that! I like it here!’ ‘Well, that’s what it means when you make love…that you want to spend the rest of your life together. That’s what it means to me.’ ‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s just a bit on the side…’ ‘Do you love her?’ ‘No!’ I answered truthfully, ‘I still love you!’ She seemed to settle down a bit, but the crying continued for days. It was when she said it would have a terrible effect on my children that I started to think. How would they know? They’ll know, she assured me. I could see the writing on the wall. ‘I’ll finish it,’ I said, ‘but I have to go down again, do a few odd jobs for her…’ I knew this rankled, but she kept quiet. Since then, we have got along quite well. No sex, but she has told me how stupid I have been, when we had such a good thing going, that there was real love between us, the sort you get when the ‘in love’ bit has worn off and you start to have ‘real love’ in your heart. I suppose that’s true, and it’s a funny thing…I had never told her that I loved her before this episode, and here she was informing me that she loved me. It seemed to mean a lot. It settled me down in a way. I know she’s waiting for me to put the ‘hard’ word on her, but it is out of the question. If anyone’s keeping tabs on me and keeping notes, the written word, then I’m not going to be part of it! I have my intellectual property to consider, and I will do anything to protect it! I’ll even go without sex! I’ll admit, it gets a bit much at times, but I can manage. Just once, she got upset again, said I didn’t consider her in this matter at all, what about her life, her feelings? I said well that’s what she gets for keeping records, she knows what I am like…she said we’ll end up hating each other. More tears. But I’m sticking to my guns. I said I can look after her, and she can look after me. And so far, that’s what we are doing.’ And he wanted to know what I thought!!!

The Book Run | sexinyourseventies.com

THE BOOK RUN When my married daughter who lives nearby, asks me what I would like for my birthday, I invariably reply, ‘Let’s do a book run!’ We set out early, in time to be at our chosen destination by the time the shops open. This could be fifty or sixty kilometres away. We only repeat journeys if there has been a request for more books. Susan is the driver. I navigate us to the Post Office or newsagent. She parks close by. The first time that day, she bullies me. She knows it takes a lot of gumption to flog my books, especially one titled ‘Sex in Your Seventies.’ ‘Go on, Mum,’ she orders, ‘out you go. Get in there. You can do it!’ And I proceed. I have my neat little bag in hand, with five books in a bundle, my price list and ‘the deal’. I also have tucked in the bag a copy of the marvellous photo that was in ‘Women’s Health’ magazine in April. And the page from the Weekend Australian where Jane Fraser discussed, with some acerbity but wonderful wit, the contents of SIYS that someone had sent to her. I start my spiel immediately I have the attention of the proprietor. They are always interested and hear me out. Sometimes I am back in the car quite quickly and Susan presumes it was a knock-back. ‘No luck?’ she queries. ‘Sold five,’ I will often reply as I produce the cheque, or sometimes the cash from my nervous fist. In a lot of cases, the owner is absent, which means no sale. Country Post offices are always interested and will photocopy the articles to display with the books. The newsagents are sometimes more interested in me personally, especially when I tell them how old I am. They say they don’t believe it, not eighty-two! You only look in your sixties! Do you practice what you preach? You have a younger man? Doreen, you’re a cougar! ‘I am indeed a cougar!’ I reply. By this time, I am fairly certain there will be a sale, and the owner finds her cheque-book. It is smiles all round as I tell them they must read the book first, then tell their customers about it, that it is not smut (although some folk will not purchase it upon being told that) but just a ‘good read’, entertaining and informative, but not a ‘how to’ book. ‘This is wowser country…’ I am often told, ‘We would never sell any.’ But they would like a copy for themselves or for a gift. So I let them have it for the wholesale price and wish them well. It is nice to return to the car with some sort of sale. I pack an adequate and nutritious lunch that we enjoy in a likely park where there are toilets. We only go on a book run if it is a pleasant, sunny day. We might make seven or eight calls, and we like to stock up on local fruit and vegetables if possible…or Schulte’s wurst at Plainlands. I would really like to have a camper-van and go on a little holiday, seeing the country, selling my books along the way. Say, for a week or so. It would probably pay for the petrol or more. But some people do not like the idea of being with a salesman and will not participate. Susan has a family and can only spare a day. I am waiting…

CABBAGE MOTHS | sexinyourseventies.com

I have a new respect for cabbage moths. I am intent on destroying them of course. And there are plenty of them in my garden right now. But I have been observing them more closely of late; taking more notice of their movements, their flight paths. They seem to fly in pairs, assiduously. I presume they are mates. How nice! Yes, if the leader goes one way, the other will follow, over lawn and trees, high and low. Is it the male who leads…or the female? As I sit on my verandah, I can observe two of my vegetable patches, both covered with bird netting, the white variety, which stretches, tent-like, over the high central rail, to be pegged down on the margins of the beds. One of the plots contains my cabbages, and it drives the moths wild! They flutter close to the net, trying to get in; endeavouring with all their might to gain entry to what is their habitat, I suppose, their end of the rainbow, their Mecca. It is instinctive for them to do all they can in order to lay their eggs on my cabbages. The odd one succeeds, and is happy for a while…so like the human species in a way. But then the moth feels trapped, and wants to join her brethren on the outside. Panic! The others who are free to fly wherever they wish, can see her distress and hover close, several of them. They follow her flight around the enclosure, up and down, from side to side, end to end. They do not give up. Are they calling encouragement somehow, pleading to exhort herself, to find some means of escape? I have seen a trapped moth fall to the ground, injured from beating too hard against the net. As it lay on the dark soil, its white form conspicuous, several of her comrades hovered close, fluttering madly against the dividing fabric. When the insect recovered and again flew to the higher region, they followed solicitously. Ultimately, naturally, if the moth did not escape, after much anxiety, the others gave up and flew on to other pastures. And that is where I came in…!

CAMP CABLE…..MY MEMORIES | sexinyourseventies.com

CAMP CABLE…my memories I turned fourteen in May, 1942. It was not a good year for Australia. Singapore had fallen to the Japanese Army. Singapore was the fortress that was supposed to repel any invaders, but the guns were facing out to sea, and the enemy came overland from the North! As the Japanese advanced south, Australia’s position became more perilous. Our AIF was defending North Africa and elsewhere on the European front, and our prime Minister was forced to defy Churchill and bring our 9th Division home to defend our own threatened shores… after our gallant young Militia were forced to cede the Owen Stanleys to the Japanese army, which was only stopped thirty miles from Port Moresby in New Guinea. The United States of America came to our aid. The 32nd Infantry Division was diverted from being deployed to Europe, and sent to Australia instead. General MacArthur had his headquarters in Brisbane in the Lennons building, and it was decided to house the troops some thirty miles (50 ks) away in the bushland outside of the little hamlet of Logan Village. The Civil Construction Company was formed in haste. My father, Harry Wendt, who was an officer in the Army Reserve, was expecting to be called up for army duty. Instead, when it was discovered that he was now a builder, he was drafted into the CCC and sent to help build the camp that was to be known as Camp Cable. This was ironic, because Harry’s grandparents were among the first settlers to this area in 1863. They farmed the land across the Logan River from Logan Village, at Chambers Flat, which dairy farm is still operating under the ownership of my second cousin, Ivan Wendt. Harry went to school at Logan Village, as did his father Hermann, and his children Joan and Doreen. Inherited from his parents, Harry and his family lived at Buccan, on a dairy farm, three miles (5ks) from the Village of Logan. A year or so prior to WWII, Harry had made the big decision to leave the farm. The Great Depression had taken its toll on farmers; times were tough. He took his young family to Brisbane to try his luck, and ended up in the building industry in which he was eminently suited, having built many a farm building. Dad would come home every two weeks, for the weekend. He took the family car, a little Vauxhall, with him to the camp. Each visit, he would bring as well, two of his new found American friends. We had no spare beds, so a couple of stretchers would be assembled on the enclosed verandah for the boys, as we called them, although they were usually older men of almost thirty (!!!) My mother fed them well, and they would go to town on the only night, Saturday, to a dance maybe, or to the movies. There was a Catholic Church on the corner of our street, and some of the boys would attend on a Sunday morning. I remember one, Blackie, who told us of his embarrassment at only having a ‘fiver’ for the collection plate. It was all he had, so he put it in but helped himself to change from the silver already in the plate! My father did not talk much about what they were building at the camp, but I understand it was a huge tent city, with buildings for the hospital, administration, PX and latrines, and the like. It must have been pretty basic. But with 35 thousand troops, there would have been quite a few structures to erect. My cousins, Oscar and Agnes Stegemann, who farmed their dairy property a mile or so from the siding at Buccan, (up what is now Stegemann Road) made good friends of some of the soldiers who enjoyed their time off in the homely atmosphere of their property. A lot of the men had come from rural areas in Wisconsin, and felt at home in a farm setting. Once, they were surprised by a visit from the General (Eikleberger?) to their farm…just a reconnoitre… In 1933, the farmers of the district (including my father and grandfather) had built with voluntary labour, the local Dance Hall. There was a piano on the stage. It was wartime, so not too many dances were held, with most of the men away on active service. However, one of the American soldiers requested that he be allowed to play the piano…just for his own enjoyment…at times. This was put to the LV Hall Committee and approved, and one lonely fellow was made a little happier on the odd occasion. A new industry came to Logan Village during the years of American occupancy. The men needed their uniforms laundered, and the local women were pleased to perform this task for a small remittance. There were a few romances also, but not too many, as most of the young, single girls had become part of the war effort and were in the city working as post-women, tram conductresses and the like. Two of the regulars who came home with Dad were Buster and Buddy, the former from California, the latter from New York. They were mates, both from the 126th Infantry Regiment, and became like members of our family. We were dismayed when they were sent to New Guinea. We only received one letter from Buster, and you could tell he was not a good letter writer. Some months later, I came home from the Girls Grammar School to find this thin, weary, Atebrin-stained soldier having a cuppa’ with my mother. It was Buster, who had gone absent-without-leave, who had been sent back from the front to the camp hospital, suffering from malaria! My mother gave him a good dinner and he told us that Buddy had lost an arm in the fighting, and had been sent home. Some friends took Buster back to camp where he recovered and was eventually sent back to New Guinea. The 32nd Division took part in the Buna campaign, with our 9th Division, pushing the Japanese back. We did not see him again. When Camp Cable was finally completed, my father was sent to Wallangarra to help in the construction of yet another army camp. He had the Vauxhall, but petrol was rationed and it was a long way from home. We saw him rarely, but one time my mother managed to get a seat on a train, and made a weekend visit to her man, taking lamingtons and little iced cakes, his favourites. We should never forget the men of the Red Arrow 32nd Division, some of whom paid the ultimate sacrifice to save our country, and who lived for a time at Camp Cable. ‘They passed this way.’ Doreen Wendt-Weir doreenwendtweir@gmail.com

A CHAIN IS AS STRONG AS THE WEAKEST LINK | sexinyourseventies.com

I forgot to inform Sue, my near neighbour and friend, that I was going whale-watching that day. Maureen and I were to leave at 6am in order to get to the pier at 7am. I usually phone Sue each day at 8am, whereby she knows I am okay. It is her way of checking on me, and I am so fortunate to have her concern. But she and her husband had been absent for a week, and I was sort of out of kilter a bit. I just plain forgot in the excitement of my outing. But I had told Judy, another near neighbour, who brings my mail up the long drive each day, and who knows my movements better than anyone else as a result. She broadcasts my ‘doings’ to any interested party, the postman, newsagent, butcher etc. So I felt confident she would tell Geoff, a chap who has his small office in one corner of my shed. He keeps a good eye on me, and needs to know I am fit and well. But this day, when Judy was about to tell Geoff that I was off whale-watching, his mobile phone rang and he excused himself, not to return to the conversation…he is a very busy fellow. So Judy left, unperturbed. When I did not phone at 8am, the vigilant Sue waited a while, and called me at 8.15. No answer. At 8.30, she and her husband came down the hill to my place to investigate. My car was there, so they presumed I was at home. With no answer to the doorbell, they used the key I had given them and entered, presuming I could be lying there incapacitated. Gingerly, she called quietly, ‘It’s only me, Doreen,’ and searched every room in the house, relieved to find no-one there. But where was I? They discussed the situation with an anxious Geoff, who could throw no light on the situation. He had not been there the day before, so I had not told him either, something I usually do. They all knew it was not my Tai Chi morning, and that I did not walk far because of my recent knee replacement. Several hours had elapsed. There was nothing they could do. All this time, Maureen and I had merrily sailed down the mountain to Surfers’ Paradise where we had difficulty finding a parking station. We found the boarding pier just in time, and the waiting vessel. Yes, there were toilets on board. And you could make your own cup of tea, with a plain biscuit. We chose a good position and relaxed. Soon we were heading out the Nerang River to the mouth, passing mansion upon mansion on the waterfront. Very interesting indeed. It was a windy day, so the waters became quite rough as we entered the open sea. It took all my strength to hold on to anything as we braced ourselves against the wind when finally a whale was sighted! We saw about six in all; saw their huge bodies as they surfaced to breathe. Just one large tail flipped as the whale dived again. In all this time, it never entered my head that I had not told Sue. Going the whole hog, after the cruise, which had taken some four hours, we then went to Charis’ fish market for lunch. Sitting in the sun, with the seagulls squawking around us, we so enjoyed our Red Emperor, salad and chips. We were both too tired to do our usual beach walk. Perhaps it was the rocking of the boat that made us so weary. Leisurely, we drove up the mountain to home. Coming up the drive, Geoff was waiting. It was 2.30pm. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded. ‘I have been worried to buggery all day! Don’t ever do that again!’ So I explained and apologised, secretly quite chuffed that someone cared. It was only when I played the waiting messages on my phone that I thought of Sue, whose message at 8.15 was evidence of her concern. ‘Doreen, are you alright?’ her voice asked. When there was no reply, the voice continued, ’I think we should come down…’ So I immediately phoned her, to reassure her I was all right, and to tell her where I had been. And to apologise for all the trouble I had caused. ‘Doreen,’ she said, ‘it was no trouble at all!’

A CHILD OF THE DEPRESSION | sexinyourseventies.com

A CHILD OF THE DEPRESSION When I say that I am ‘a child of the Depression’, most folk know what I mean. It tells them that I do not waste anything if I can help it; I buy hardly anything if I can do without it; and I get great satisfaction out of tastefully using left-overs that are in my refrigerator. My freezer is full of bits and pieces…surplus food that I have frozen and which comes in handy when I need a snack. Or when I do not have the energy to cook a meal. They are always a nice surprise, even though I label each container, showing contents and date. When I make scones, I do so because I have milk or cream remainders that should be used, and there was recently quite a lot of it, perhaps enough for several dozen scones that would need a large space in the freezer. Right! I must start eating the contents pronto! I have had savoury mince with frozen peas; boiled chicken pieces that I had with a salad from my garden; rissoles with gravy to which I added greens and pumpkin; pasta sauce that was added to fresh spaghetti, and there are four large frozen fresh prawns that I am eyeing off as they rest with the other forgotten items in the now half-full freezer. I can see two loin chops and some round steak just waiting to be cooked, as well as a container of apple strudel that I made some time ago. I am determined to get to the bottom of this…and I am eating well.

Contact me | sexinyourseventies.com

If you wish to get in touch …my e-mail address has changed. It is now: doreenwendtweir@gmail.com

Courier Mail Interview – September 2012 | sexinyourseventies.com

LET’S TALK ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHAT: Doreen Wendt-Weir, 84, came up with the idea for her book Sex in Your Seventies while listening to uni students talk about sex. Picture: Luke Marsden Source: The Courier-Mail DOREEN Wendt-Weir is just like any other sweet 84-year-old lady who enjoys sitting in her garden, assuming all those other sweet elderly ladies write and talk about sex for seniors. Ms Wendt-Weir is the author of Sex in Your Seventies and is working on a sequel. She often gets invited to talk to community groups on the subject. “Nothing changes in my opinion, it’s just that you’re older and your bodies are not as flexible,” she said. “You’ve just got to be content with nothing out of the ordinary just good old sex.” Interviewing Ms Wendt-Weir is like talking to your grandmother, assuming you’re comfortable talking about sex with your granny. “Don’t give the impression I’m promiscuous or hot to trot, as they say, because I’m not,” the 84-year-old from North Tamborine said politely but firmly. “I’ve led a very respectable and conservative life, but I’m able to speak about sex. I’m not a bit embarrassed, because it’s part of life.” She got the idea for the book when studying for her Bachelor of Arts with honours as a mature-age student. Sex, she says, was frequently a topic of conversation with university students. “It’s all about the problems that confront one when one is getting on. It’s about their life stories and what has made them into the person they are,” Ms Wendt-Weir said. “It’s not smut. This book is not smut. That’s enormously informative to some people.” Ms Wendt-Weir’s own story is in the book although she’s not willing to admit which chapter is about her. Her favourite story is that of “Celeste”. “She talked about the difficulty one has when one is an older person taking a new lover,” Ms Wendt-Weir said. “She talked about the terrible problem of what to do with your teeth.” Celeste wrestled with the dilemma of whether taking her plate out would ruin the romance but she found her solution when she walked into the bedroom and smiled at her younger man. “He smiled back and there were all these gaps! She said ‘where are your teeth?’ and he said ‘I never wear my teeth to bed, it’s bad for you’.” Ms Wendt-Weir said the hardest subject to find for the book was a married couple happy to open up about their private lives. Eventually, she found a couple on the Gold Coast who disagreed on everything the other said. “Then the penny dropped for me. The wonderful, wonderful lesson in it was that each one acknowledged the other’s right to disagree. “She said ‘we love each other’ and I made those words the last in the book. I thought they were the most important words in the whole thing.”

THE CROWS AT BUCCAN | sexinyourseventies.com

Recent news about crows menacing humans reminded me of my school days when Marty, Joan and I would walk barefoot the five kilometres from our home on Buccan Hill to the Logan Village School. The first hundred or so metres down the long hill were safe enough, but then we must pass the big gum tree that stood near the entrance to the cow paddock of rich pasture on the Logan River. In this tree nested the crows! I suppose it was only at nesting time that the crows would attack us, but we were always wary, looking upwards as we approached, and getting ready to run! I think the birds sensed that we were afraid and would remain quiet as we sauntered nearer, pretending we were fearless. Just when we thought we were safely past the danger spot, the crows would swoop, screeching their war-cry! Our little legs sprang into action, running as fast as we could as the birds swooped over our heads, again and again, terrifying us as we raced breathlessly towards the creek where we knew low hanging willows would give us some shelter. The crows did their job well; their nest was safe. Then it was on to school, past the meat-ant nests that pitted the old gravel road. It seemed that these big red ants were out to get us too…but that’s another story.

The custard seed | sexinyourseventies.com

THE CUSTARD SEED He was only six years of age, but already he had that instinct to grow things. He had learned from his great-uncle how you planted, nurtured and produced. So when he had enquired of his mother as to the lumps in the custard, and she had replied that they were ‘custard seeds’, he had the urge to plant some and produce more, he being so fond of custard and always wanting more. He saved his lumps instead of swallowing them, and duly planted them in a choice spot in their large allotment. He had already tilled the soil and mixed in some cow manure, which was plentiful in this rural district. Then he waited, each day looking, resisting the urge to sift a little of the black dirt to see if anything was happening. The casual observer could have seen that he always came away from the plot a little disappointed. Maybe custard seeds needed different conditions…should he have watered so much? Should they be planted deeper…or shallower? Quite some time passed, but he never gave up looking. Then it happened. The tiny green shoot appeared, forcing its way out of the earth. Eureka! A custard plant! He ran to tell his mother who gasped in wonderment. The smile never left his face. And day by day, the shoot grew. First two leaves, then another two, then more as it grew taller. Finally, it became a small tree that lost its leaves in the winter. He was aghast…but delighted when the new shoots appeared up the branches. Wonderful! Then buds burst forth…custard buds! He could hardly wait for the time when delicious custard fruit would appear. His mother could not enlighten him; she had not seen a custard tree before. He would just have to wait and see. The flowers emerged and tiny fruit followed. Small green orbs became larger green fruit, and his suspicions began. They looked familiar somehow, but no-one seemed to know what they were. In time, with the warm weather and the rosy bloom on the skin, together with the sweetness of the aroma on the air, it became apparent that he had a crop of good peaches! Fine, pink cheeked peaches! His mother was pleased indeed to have such lovely fruit in her back yard. And I suppose he was pleased also, in a way. The penny dropped at last that he had been duped, kindly no doubt, but duped he had been. But he had the last laugh when he assumed possession of the peach tree, which bore delicious fruit for many years, all of them belonging to him and referred to as the ‘custard peaches.’

The documentary | sexinyourseventies.com

The Documentary I have been honoured in that a very charming, vivacious documentary maker from Melbourne is interested in making a doc around me. She has been up here twice now, each time filming a little more. I have seen an uncut version of the first day, wherein only I spoke. It was somewhat of a shock! I had no idea I was so entertaining, or that my face was so full of expression! I told my daughter this, saying, ‘It is no wonder that I am such a hit at guest speaking…’ ‘Or that your little grandchildren just love you…’ she added. Perhaps I am a comedienne. I certainly could not help laughing at the words and facial gestures of this voluble ageing blonde, myself. You could not help liking her, she was so honest about her feelings on the matter being discussed, which was, of course, ‘sex.’ Having lived a life, naturally she has thoughts and opinions on the matter. However, I am sorry if this gives the impression that she is some kind of sex guru, or heaven forbid, that she is taken to have been a ‘hot little number’ in her day! The truth is that she is a conservative, respectable, animated old gal who endeavours to be interesting and interested. I should know. The producer thinks I am a ‘natural.’ She hopes I will go on saying what I think, and will not be inhibited by seeing the uncut version.

The dolls in Grafton Cathedral | sexinyourseventies.com

I was intrigued with the story of ‘the dolls’. I listened with interest to the architectural history of Christ Church Cathedral in Grafton, but when the two dolls were mentioned, I knew that was the centre of my concern. I knew that when I thought of the cathedral, I would think of the dolls. The story goes that funds were being sought to build the edifice in 1883. Bella and May Greenaway were the small daughters of the clergyman of the diocese, and each possessed a small porcelain doll. Just a simple little white rigid dolly, with painted hair and lips, about ten or twelve centimetres high. One of the daughters, Bella I believe, insisted on donating her doll to the cause, and it was accepted and placed somewhere in the walls of the new cathedral. When part of a wall was demolished in 1937, in order to facilitate the extension that was taking place, the doll was found in the cavity. It was removed, cleaned and placed in the new west wall where it can be seen today, albeit with some difficulty. If you stand outside and look hard and long enough, you can see the tiny white figure placed between two bricks. It’s there all right, high on the wall, almost too high to be noticed without due instruction. But it’s there. The Greenaways remained in Grafton, some descendants still living in the old home. Grafton is like that, full of lovely old homes built around Federation or before. When a relative, for some reason or another was moving some heavy furniture, she discovered the other identical porcelain doll wedged behind a solid wardrobe. No doubt it had belonged to May. This doll was also cleaned up, and given to the cathedral in 1984, over a hundred years since the other doll had been so generously donated. May’s doll is to be found inside, to the right of the imposing entrance, housed in a glass-fronted frame, for all to see. Oh that the doll could speak!

Doreen’s little musings | sexinyourseventies.com

I was being interviewed on radio by John Harcourt. All about Sex in Your Seventies. He said I must be good for a bit of advice on what makes for a happy marriage. I had to think quickly, and this is what I said: Respect your spouse for the person he/she is. Try to look at the world through his/her eyes. Be affectionate. If you cannot touch your spouse on the arm in the kitchen, there is not much hope for you in the bedroom. I remember my grandmother’s words … she said she disobeyed the words of the Bible in her marriage. Shock! Horror! She was so pious! ‘How, Grandma?’ ‘I did not submit to my husband!’ We all knew my grandfather was a lusty man, and that they had had six children in as many years. ‘Whatever did you do, Grandma?’ Spreading her arms wide, she chortled, ‘I said “Come to me darling!”’ And that’s not submitting!? *** I went to Movieworld for a day out, with a friend called Richard, a bit of a devil. He suggested we try being Superheroes, at a price! So we donned the appropriate capes, shoes etc, the result being a video of the pair of us flying over Surfer’s Paradise as Superman and Superwoman. We swoop and dive as the wind blows my hair from my face, the crowd below following our course through the sky. Richard tells me to look down and I exhibit fear at the prospect. I wish I had held my tummy in a bit more, but we leave our viewers with kisses blown as we are whisked into the stratosphere! I was chosen ‘Mrs Logan Village’ at the last ball to be held in the local hall. This building was built by the farmers of the district in 1933, my father, Harry Wendt, being one of those men. They gave up one Sunday a month to construct the hall. When the hall was opened, I would have been five years old. Little did my parents dream that some seventy-one years later, their little girl would be selected to wear the sash proclaiming her ‘Mrs Logan Village, 2004’. I was seventy-seven, probably the oldest to even win such a title. *** I entered a competition to gain selection for a book titled ‘Songs of the Unsung heroes’, to be about women in this state who should have had their stories told. I entered the tale of my grandmother, who had come from Germany as a girl, her parents having lost three children in a month to diphtheria, the oldest at eleven, and the baby and the toddler. Grandma was three, the youngest remaining. The family settled at Buccan, on the Logan, in 1884. They were wiped out by the disastrous flood of 1887, but worked on to prosper. My grandmother had contracted small-pox as a baby, and her skin was pockmarked as a result. However, she attracted the eye of a handsome farmer from across the river, Hermann Wendt, they married and worked the farm at Buccan, where I later lived as a child. I also entered a poem, ‘I Remember The Apron’, which I had written when at University, and which had won a poetry competition there, first prize being $300! It was about an aboriginal lady whose three daughters had been removed from her side in about 1910. She was heartbroken, and throughout the farewells and her subsequent grieving, she had kept her tear-stained apron on. When in her eighties, one of the daughters had featured in a video telling of the episode when they were ‘stolen’. She was a lovely old lady, and I could not forget her. I wrote the poem for her. Out of hundreds of entries across Australia, both of mine were accepted for publication. I was thrilled, of course, even though I was really after the first prize of $1000, which would have gone towards my Uni fees. However, a wonderful adventure was to follow as a result. I was asked, along with the other authors, if I could travel to Barcaldine for the opening of that part of the huge Heritage Centre that was devoted to the women who had helped pioneer the State of Queensland. The anthology was being launched there, and would I speak at this event (following Margaret Whitlam, who launched the book)? My job was to promote the anthology, ensuring sales. I did my best, and told of my grandmother’s journey, how her mother had begged little three year old Berthe to suckle her breasts when the two young siblings had died. The mother had been either pregnant or breast feeding for twelve years, and now…nothing! Her breasts were so engorged from waiting milk, the pain was so intense, that suckling was the only relief. I knew I had my audience of some thousands in the palm of my hand, as I spoke from the raised platform overlooking the lake and gardens where were gathered, sitting on the grass, the milling throng of politicians from every state, dignitaries and interested folk. You could have heard a pin drop as I narrated the story. I must have succeeded, because the book was a sell-out! When I announced that I was going to Barcaldine for a week, my youngest daughter, Katy, said she thought she should come with me. We did it in style. We had a sleeper on the train, which is quite expensive, our own suite. We had wonderful meals in the dining-car. But the best part of it was discovering on the same train, the bush band that had been hired for the festivities. We were recognised by Morrie, a guitarist, who had been the boyfriend of my oldest daughter, Susan, twenty years before. Katy and I became ‘groupies’. We were staying at an old pub, The Commercial, in the main street, opposite the railway station. The boys in the band were staying up the road at another old pub. Wherever they were playing, that’s where we were! We danced, sang and took part in the fun. I played the tambourine with them so vigorously that my hand was bruised for days. Our room had a washbasin, no wardrobe, just a nail or two on the wall, no dressing table, just a chair. No windows, just French doors opening to the long verandah. The door to the hallway had no lock, so we pushed one bed across the closed door, keeping the French doors secure with our suitcases and the chair. It was very hot during the day, but freezing at night. We heard strange noises during the small hours, comings and goings that puzzled us no end. It was only when we investigated the inner courtyard that we saw the red light over the door of the room opposite ours, which explained the nocturnal movements. One of the authors was a charming, vibrant lady from Western Australia, Connie. She introduced herself to us on the train, indicating her right eye, which had been removed. In its place, over the socket, on the outside was placed a painted eye, complete with lashes. It looked pretty good. She took a fancy to Katy, who, at the time, shared her love for a beer and a smoke! They could often be seen together at Barcaldine, with Connie giving the orders, ‘Come on Katy, get us another couple of beers!’ or, ‘Where are your ciggies, Katy? Got one to spare? I’ve run out!’ Katy was a hit with Margaret Whitlam also. The latter and I would be sitting chatting at a reception, and Katy would hover, asking politely, ‘Can I get you another claret, Margaret?’ The Tree of Knowledge was still alive then. We absolutely loved Barcaldine and the people of the West.

ELWYN FAY SCOTT | sexinyourseventies.com

ELWYN FAY SCOTT I was in the middle of decorating one of my ceramic bowls when the phone rang. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Is that you Doreen?’ this pleasant voice enquired, to which I of course answered in the affirmative. ‘This is Elwyn Scott,’ was the seeming nonchalant reply, ‘Do you remember me?’ ‘Good God, Elwyn!’ I remember saying in my shocked state, ‘of course I remember you!’ How could I forget his Texan drawl? As he politely asked my mother if he could take my sister Joan to the movies? She was seventeen, blonde, slim and good looking with an engaging smile. I was two years younger, on the cusp of adulthood…because this was war-time, and you grew up quickly in those days. But I was just an onlooker in the romance stakes. In our home, my sister had the floor to herself. Elwyn was nineteen, an older man. I always thought of him as Elwyn Fay Scott. He had a twin brother called Delwyn Ray Scott. Perhaps there was an ‘e’ on ‘Fay’ and ‘Ray’. Did his mother hope for a girl? I had never asked that question, but I remembered him as being quite charming to a young, dark haired teenager who considered herself plain and un-noticeable. ‘It’s been a while, sixty years or so I reckon…’ And I ultimately heard his story. I remembered he had been a sailor on the submarine tender USS Sperry which was based in Brisbane for some time during World War II. During this period, he had come to know my sister and thus the whole family that consisted of Joan and me and Mum and our seven-year old sister. Our father had been conscripted into the Civil Construction Corps (CCC), and was away building army camps. Our mother held the fort at home at Greenslopes. When the Sperry eventually left Brisbane for the Northern war zone, Elwyn promised to write; and for three long years there were regular, long epistles between Greenslopes and the US Fleet. A large studio portrait of him in naval uniform adorned the picture rail in our lounge room, and we became used to his rather decorative handwriting on the air mail letters. Occasionally, a parcel would arrive from the United States. It was always an item of dress jewellery for Joan, always beautiful, and always very attractive to us in wartime Brisbane where jewellery was hardly ever seen in the shops except in second hand stores. Food and clothing were strictly rationed. Joan would muse about Elwyn’s return after the war, but it never happened. He was demobbed back in the States, and the letters dwindled. Of course they did. Mum figured all along that this would happen and was never too worried that her beloved eldest daughter would sail as a war-bride to the USA. ‘How on earth did you find me?’ I asked him. After all, I had married and changed residences a few times. He had married, naturally, and their adult son had been sent to Canberra as some sort of military envoy. Elwyn and his wife had visited, and on one occasion had met an older friend of the son’s. She hailed from Brisbane, from Greenslopes no less! Did she perchance know the Wendt girls? Oh yes, she knew of them, not personally, but had followed their activities in the press. They were well known and their trips abroad and their nuptials were duly reported. Their father Harry was also newsworthy, being the first one to introduce electricity to the farming district where they originally lived. His death was reported along with a photo of him with Doreen and Joan…the latter ‘now deceased’…and this was sent to Elwyn by his contact. ‘I was very distressed to learn of Joan’s death,’ he told me during our long conversation, ‘She was mah angel…’ He still did not say ‘my’ I noticed, recalling those long gone times, but ‘mah’. ‘She gave me hope during the black times of the war, something to cling to, to look forward to… when death was looking us in the face. Yessir, Joan was indeed mah angel!’ Australia seemed a long way away after the war. For a time, he went to Saudi Arabia in the construction industry, being grateful for a good living in tough times. He had had a good marriage, but last year his dear wife had been knocked down and killed by a speeding car in his home town in Texas. He was devastated and was finding it difficult to lift his depression. His daughter-in-law was continually saying, ‘Dad…have you contacted Doreen yet?’ She knew the story, and had followed, with him, my activities in the art world. They knew I was the proprietor of an art gallery in rural Queensland, but it was the publicity I received on being accepted into University when in my seventies that clinched the deal. He was sure it was I, and the accompanying story and photo proved it. So he plucked up courage and phoned. He phoned several times for a chat, saying it was very inexpensive to phone from the US….about two cents a minute. I sent him one of my books, Barefoot in Logan Village, about our childhood in that little rural hamlet where our father had a dairy farm, as had his father and grandfather before him. Elwyn was thrilled to receive it, he said, and was surprised that we came from humble country stock as he had. On noting my recent picture on the back cover, he remarked that I hadn’t changed much, that I was still the pretty young girl that he remembered. Still charming! We exchanged Christmas cards, his handwriting being just as it was when he was so young. Then there was no reply, and I let the matter rest.

ENAMELLED PLAQUE | sexinyourseventies.com

ENAMELLED PLAQUE During the last war, my parents befriended two American soldiers, brothers from Idaho. We became very fond of them and were devastated when the younger one lost his life in the fierce fighting in New Guinea. I wrote to his mother until she died and vowed to visit the family one day. This I did in 1991, taking with me an enamelled plaque (made by me) titled Stained Glass Window, in memory of the young soldier who had died. I presented it to his ageing sister, who seemed to cherish it, while the giving gave me a sense of fulfilment somehow. After many years we lost touch, as you do. A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from a woman in New York State who had purchased the plaque from a gallery in Idaho Falls. She absolutely loved it and had contacted me from the inscription on the back, put there by me all those years ago. She wanted to know the history of the plaque. So I told her. I can only presume that the sister left the enamelled painting to her only child, who, now being in his eighties, has perhaps passed on himself, his estate being administered by those to whom the plaque perhaps meant little. The local gallery was given the task of realising on this once precious item. It had been well looked after and fetched a tidy sum. My pleasure lies in knowing it is still loved.

THE ENAMELLED PLAQUE | sexinyourseventies.com

THE ENAMELLED PLAQUE I was quite taken a-back when I received the e-mail. It was from a woman in New York State who had recently acquired a beautiful enamelled plaque. It still had my card on the back, and she traced me from the name to my website and to my email address. She, Donna, wanted to know the history of the plaque, which was titled ‘In Memory.’ I was thrilled, and remembered the painting well. So I told her the story… During WWII, in Brisbane Australia, there were over a hundred thousand American troops in our city. They were there to help defend our country against the advancing Japanese. My father, a house builder by trade, had been drafted to build army camps, He had befriended an American soldier from Idaho, and invited him to our home on several occasions. This man, Slim, then asked could he bring with him his kid brother who was recuperating from typhus acquired at the front in New Guinea. He was an infantryman. Whenever we had visitors, my mother would bid me play the piano (instead of helping her), and the young brother would sing with me to my playing the popular songs that we both knew. He told me about his life in Idaho…and the excellent military band that played every night at the Officers’ Club in the city. Here, they could dance and socialise, a welcome relief from the worries of war. Would I like to go there one evening? I would enjoy it, he said. ‘I’ll have to ask Mum,’ I replied, not confidently. We both knew I was only sixteen. I can still hear him asking my mother. ‘Agatha, would it be okay for Doreen to come with me to the Officers’ Club one evening?’ ‘Oh…I’ll have to ask her father…’ And Dad said if my older sister, Joan went also, it would be all right. So he brought a friend, also a lieutenant. I was working for the US Army at the time, in the Post Office, and on my nights off, we would dance until the club closed. We four would squeeze into the back seat of a taxi for the journey home where Mum would often be waiting up for us. We had such happy, innocent times until they were inevitably called back to their fighting units, and the sad times began. Letters passed between him and me. He asked could I bake a cake and send it up, as they were hungry. Mum cooked a rich fruit cake in a Willows tin that was despatched hurriedly at my work place, but it was too late. He had been leading a patrol in the jungle when he was shot by a sniper and died of wounds in the field. Our family was devastated. A long correspondence with his mother ensued, ending only with her death. I wrote to his older sister briefly. I later took up enamelling and gained quite a name for myself in this difficult art, winning a lot of prizes for my work. After looking at his photo in my album, I decided to create a plaque in memory of my soldier friend. It represented a stained glass window in a church, with lots of red, very colourful. I called it ‘In Memory’. When a gentleman friend and I were planning our trip to America to attend the wedding of my nephew in Washington DC, I insisted on going to Idaho. I contacted the older sister, which resulted in a stay on her potato farm that was most enjoyable. I presented her with the plaque ‘ In Memory.’ I was informed that she had subsequently died, and I often wondered what had become of the plaque; if it was looked upon with loving eyes? Donna told me that she had seen an advertisement from a gallery in Idaho, had put in a bid for the plaque which was ultimately hers for a very reasonable price. She loves it and it has pride of place in her dining room. She has typed out my story and attached it to the back of the plaque. My soldier friend will not be forgotten, and I am well pleased. Delighted really.

TO END…OR NOT TO END… | sexinyourseventies.com

TO END…OR NOT TO END… I cannot quite understand it. Here is this woman, 86 years old, very capable, well educated and articulate, good company and in good health, but who is flying to Switzerland next week to have herself euthanised. No, I don ‘t quite get it. Now, I know she says she has been quite worn down by her bully of a husband, and that talk of a divorce brought on this decision. He is going to drive her to the airport next week. It has been suggested that he is so glad to be rid of her that he is making sure she catches the plane. Some friends have been trying to get her to change her mind on this matter, but to no avail. She is very calm, they say, and determined that this is the best way out of this situation. Their home is worth a lot of money, enough for two smaller, good houses. She would be able to set herself up quite well. And the pension is liberal enough to afford a good living should she need it. It has been suggested that she simply take an overdose here and save the trouble of going to a foreign country. But it is illegal here to commit suicide, while Switzerland, I am informed, is the only place where one can be euthanised if one is well and just wants to end it all. As I said, it is beyond me. Here we are, trying to enjoy the rest of our sometimes sad and difficult lives, endeavouring to keep well, doing our utmost to stay alive and healthy so that we can make the world a better place, remaining cheerful against all odds so that we will be remembered as a happy person…and that those we leave behind feel better for having known us. Am I right to feel this way? Some say that it is good because she feels at peace, and will exit on her own terms. Is it the coward’s way out? Surely not. I consider it is a very brave act…but a bit of a ‘cop out.’ I can understand this action if there was great suffering involved, but to surrender a perfectly healthy life is surely escaping the responsibility that we all owe to our loved ones to do our best for one another, to contribute as best we can during our lives.

Even the Staid Ones Seem to Like The Book | sexinyourseventies.com

A lady called Daphne phoned to buy Sex in Your Seventies. The money arrived and I dispatched it promptly. After about a week, she phoned to say how she had enjoyed the book, and wished to order four more. She asked a prudish friend if she had read it? ‘What on earth would I read anything like that for?’ the friend, widow of a parson replied. ‘It’s a good read! I’m giving this copy to you!’ The widow lady pursed her lips in a staid fashion, and reluctantly accepted the book. Daphne went on to tell me how she saw her friend some days later, asked her how she liked the book. The friend replied, with a smile, that she was enjoying it immensely, and that she should have read it years ago! Daphne asked if she could put my name forward as future guest speaker (about Barefoot in Logan Village) to her church group, the very church where I was christened all those years ago? Of course, I replied. And a relative of hers on the North Coast wanted me as guest speaker, topic Sex in Your Seventies, to her social group. And that’s the way it goes. It all happens by word of mouth. The first half of my talk is about my life, the early years on the dairy farm, walking barefoot three miles to school at Logan Village, the subsequent move to Brisbane, and the advent of World War II., which interrupted my education; the move to North Tamborine when I was 65, and my being accepted to study at Griffith University when I was 71; obtaining my BA, then my BA (Hons). The second half is about Sex in Your Seventies, and I discuss briefly each chapter, some of which are quite funny, a couple sad (like the homosexual man who generously told me of his life). There is a lesson in each chapter. It makes you think, makes you ask yourself, ‘What would I have done?’

FAIR EXCHANGE | sexinyourseventies.com

The doorbell woke me from my midday nap. I groggily answered the front door. The pleasant looking young man smiled at me. ‘My wife and I were going past your place,’ he said, ‘and we noticed all the oranges under the tree. I wondered if you could spare a few? They seem to be going to waste.’ ‘Of course,’ I replied,’ you can take as many as you like. Do you have a bag?’ He assured me he had one in the car, adding that they had just put in an application to rent a house down the road, and that they were looking forward to living on this mountain. ‘Do you like lemonades?’ I asked. ‘There are plenty next to the orange tree. And what about limes? Look at all those beautiful fruit under the tree at the end of the row!’ He assured me they loved them all, so I told him to take plenty. ‘Make sure you get good ones,’ I instructed, ‘and make sure you enjoy them!’ The smile did not leave his face as he started down the steps. Then he turned. ‘Do you like honey?’ he asked as I nodded my tousled old head. ‘I’ll bring you a jar next time I’m up here.’ And I am sure he will not forget. No matter if he does; it gave me great pleasure to share my bounty with someone who appreciated it. I have had my reward.

FINISHED THIS SHI(F)T… | sexinyourseventies.com

My middle-aged, beautiful daughter is quite prim and prissy. She is also reserved and timid in the workplace. She works two days a week from home, typing medical reports, and is very happy in her job. She always tries to do what is asked of her, and does not like to upset anyone. She does not make waves. When these women, quite a few of them, sign out for the day, they are required to do so on the computer, with a few words of farewell to the other co-workers. Yesterday she was signing out as usual, and typed, (she thought) “I am now finished this shift…bye for now.’ Being a competent typist, she did not check her message, not realising that she had omitted the ‘f’ in ‘shift’ and it now read, ‘I am now finished this shit…bye for now.’…! Her words were sent far and wide, to the big boys and the ultimate boss. My daughter only knew about this error when the replies started coming in the next morning. All were laughing out loud, as they said, because she is never one to put a foot wrong, and has been considered a bit aloof. Despite her embarrassment, it appears that she is now well and truly ‘one of the gang’, a very good thing. Even she is now laughing.

THE FIRST SNOWDROP | sexinyourseventies.com

THE FIRST SNOWDROPS Of course I didn’t recognise him. I didn’t really remember him. He had been a pleasant teenager, over thirty years ago, when he would call in to my gallery with his father. All I saw today was this lanky chap, in his fifties, weather beaten, very ‘country’ with those deep lines etched in his face by the years and the elements. He had a curiosity about him, I could see. I hoped he might see something to buy at my garage sale. He was looking intently at my enamelling kiln and the small enamelled plaque that was perched on top of it. I started to explain why I was thinking of selling the kiln. He looked at me intently. ‘It is you,’ he said, as he perused the label on the plaque. It held my name, naturally. He looked at me again, then at the price tag. ‘Yes, it’s you all right. I’m Herb McLeod’s son. Greg McLeod. Do you remember me?’ It was now my turn to look searchingly at him. It was easy, because his father had worn the same gnarled, but attractive look. ‘Oh yes, I can see the resemblance…how nice to see you Greg!’ I replied. ‘We loved Herb…’ His Dad had died when he was about the same age at this fellow, I thought. ‘Poor Herb, he died too young.’ I asked him what he did in life and found out he was a bit of a drifter really, getting manual work where he could. I gathered he had not put down roots. “Remember when we all went to see ‘On Golden Pond’ at the Wintergarden Theatre in Brisbane?’ he asked me. I remembered seeing the much loved film, but could not recall with whom. ‘We all went together, drove down in the one car,’ he added, ‘you and Susan and Chris, Dad and me. Susan was the same age as me.’ He asked what my two children were doing, but returned his attention to the plaque. ‘I always remembered a beautiful enamel that you did. Little white flowers, what were they called? I loved it. Never forgot it. What were they, those flowers?’ I tried to recall. Jasmine? I had done a lot of those. ‘No, it was a small flower, very pure sort of.’ He said he always wondered how we were. I could see that by my making him welcome, as a lad, he had been impressed. I would have asked him about himself, I am sure. I would have shown an interest in him. I always did. Susan and I probably asked them to join us in a cup of tea. I was grateful to Herb…he kept an eye on my daughter Susan when I was away. He owned the ‘water truck’ that supplied households with water in the dry season. He filled the tanks, and drove past our gallery quite a lot. He was a good friend to her, and each held a platonic attraction for the other. When young Greg was helping him in busy times, both father and son would visit my daughter. Yes, we were all such good mates. And now, here was Greg, standing in my shed, trying to remember the flower that I had depicted in enamel in those far off days. I had no idea at the time that he had been so taken with my work. I knew he had wandered about the gallery, looking, just looking. It would have been unusual then, as now, for a gangling youth to be interested in any sort of art. Certainly not my delicate enamels. They were, well, so feminine! ‘Snowdrops! That’s it!’ suddenly he exclaimed. ‘The First Snowdrop! That’s what it was called! A beautiful little picture…I loved it. I have carried it in my mind ever since. What was it all about? Did you grow them?’ What memories this man was educing in me! The snowdrops, I explained, were stolen for me by someone who had loved me very much, if illicitly. This person knew how I loved those flowers, and he knew where there were some growing…in his wife’s garden! One day he arrived, triumphant, with a bucketful of bulbs still covered in soil. I was overwhelmed and have carted the snowdrops with me from house to house in several moves. I have cared for them. They are precious to me for many reasons. I told Greg about the ‘hot snowdrops’, as I have always called them. ‘If ever you make another snowdrop enamel, let me know,’ he said. I explained that I was now retired from this arduous art, and I knew he was not contactable anyhow. We both knew there was little likelihood of seeing each other again, but the meeting was so memorable. ‘Give my regards to Chris and Susan,’ he said as he left with a grin and a wave, ‘See ya’…’

Gardening in your Nineties | sexinyourseventies.com

A ninety-three year old, who has written the successful book ‘Sex in Your Seventies’, tells of her efforts, post sex-life, at gardening. As she works away, her thoughts wander to her past long life. She talks of her childhood on the dairy farm on the Logan river, and remembers her many subsequent adventures, which will keep her readers enthralled as they travel this interesting journey with her. Through it all, there is woven a love story that may, or may not be resolved. (click on book images to enlarge)

Gardening in your Nineties – eBook (PDF) | sexinyourseventies.com

A ninety-three year old, who has written the successful book ‘Sex in Your Seventies’, tells of her efforts, post sex-life, at gardening. As she works away, her thoughts wander to her past long life. She talks of her childhood on the dairy farm on the Logan river, and remembers her many subsequent adventures, which will keep her readers enthralled as they travel this interesting journey with her. Through it all, there is woven a love story that may, or may not be resolved. (click on book images to enlarge) Please note: this is an Acrobat PDF computer file (not printed) for viewing on your computer. You may print it out if you wish. After payment, you will be redirected to a link which you can click on to download the book. The file will open with Adobe Acrobat (which is found on just about every computer today, or is freely available from the adobe.com website in case you do not have it).

GUEST SPEAKING | sexinyourseventies.com

GUEST SPEAKING It was quite exciting. I had been invited to be one of the speakers at a large function for 200 carers of the aged ethnic community in Queensland. My brief was to speak of sensuality and the elderly. Having written the book Sex in Your Seventies, I suppose I was the logical choice. But perhaps nobody realised what a hoot my speech always is! The organisers insisted on sending a car up the mountain, sixty ks or so, to get me, the day before the big event at Rydges Convention Auditorium. A lovely, smart woman of almost fifty years was assigned to look after me. She saw to my accommodation at Rydges, settled me in my beautiful room, admired the view with me, and took me to afternoon tea. She showed me where I was to dine that night, and informed me of the method I must use to pay for any services…just book it to Room 618. Easy! It was not long before my daughter Katy arrived, as had been arranged. She was free to have dinner with me, and would willingly meet the cost. ‘Oh no,’ said my charming minder when informed of this arrangement, ‘just put it on your account, Doreen. Live it up!’ So Katy and I presented at the very swish dining room at 6pm. An energetic, very French gentleman took us to our table. He told us his name in broken English, throwing in a few words in French the while. ‘Mum learns French,’ proffered Katy, upon which I regretted instantly any boasting I may have done regarding my proficiency in studying this language for several years. ‘Je parle Francais un petit peu,’ I lamely muttered. ‘Ah oui…’he replied. Then luck was with me. I gathered he was asking what our names were? We had learned that recently in our weekly class! ‘Je m’appelle Dorine,’ I said, to Katy’s approval. ‘Et c’est ma fille. Elle s’appelle Katy.’ And there was no stopping him! He spoke such wonderful, rapid French that I caught only a few words. No matter, the menu was before us. An appetiser was brought…we chose our entree…a palate cleanser…dinner. By then, we had noticed that outside the plate glass windows were seated my other daughter, Caroline, her husband and their little girl Holly. The latter had her face pressed to the glass, trying to get our attention. We skipped dessert and joined them in the Bistro, where they enjoyed pizzas. I showed Holly the swimming pool, the flaming torches and the myriads of lights. We repaired to my room for a cuppa’ and due admiration of the view. Time for bed! I was up and ready the next morning, having breakfasted in the same dining room. I must take my place at my designated stall by 8am. But first I needed to see the microphone arrangements, the lectern etc. I was astonished to be introduced to the technician as ‘our main speaker.’ Surely not! There must have been twenty or so stalls, and each one was the same, all tables resplendent in a white, starched cloth and arranged around the perimeter of the large reception hall. My books were laid out on my table. The auditorium where I was to speak was next door, seating arranged in rows; all looking splendid indeed. My ‘minder’ was offering me drinks the while which I declined. According to the elegant flyer that I had seen, I was the fourth speaker of five before lunch. Okay. The speakers were professional people who explained their roles in caring for the aged. Very good and enlightening. Then it was my turn. Now I know that when I am introduced as being eighty-six years old, the audience, with good reason, wonder what on earth this old ‘git’ is going to say! But I stand tall, am a bottle blonde, wear red and have my own good teeth, with which I flash a broad, winning smile. I tell them how pleased I am to be there today…how pleased I am to be ANYWHERE today…and I get my first little response. I talk about my life, my progression from a shy little girl on a dairy farm to a university graduate in my seventies. They are interested by now. And I speak about my book Sex in Your Seventies, how I came to write it, and explain the contents. I pack a punch! I talk about ‘quickies’, what to do with your teeth!!!, the flab, your children’s reactions when you take a lover, physical problems and the pleasures and benefits in having a sexual partner when you are elderly. They are laughing, mostly at my audacity, but also at my punch lines. I know what I am doing, and finish with style. As I am helped down from the high podium, my minder says, as she steadies me, ‘That was sensational!’ The next speaker, a charming young doctor from Melbourne, springs lightly to the stage. His first words are, ‘Doreen is such a hard act to follow!’ There is applause again, and I know I have been a success. He speaks well, and when I am chatting him to him afterwards, a woman runs down the aisle calling to me, ’Doreen, you had better get out here to your stall! There is a queue waiting to buy your books!’ My helper brought me my lunch, my drink, whatever I needed. I was busy signing books and taking money. I put on a special deal for this day whereby my customer saved fifteen dollars by purchasing all three books for $50…the Sex one, and the two about my young life in Logan Village. Most took up this offer. I sold out. There was no opportunity for me to hear the other four speakers. Then it was time to leave. At 2.30pm, the limousine was ready to take me home. Quick farewells to the officials, other stall holders calling out their good-byes as I traversed the room, an essential toilet stop, and there was the BMW with my luggage already on board. A hug for my lovely helper, and I was waved off like royalty! By about Mt. Gravatt I was asleep.

Guest Speaking | sexinyourseventies.com

I love being a guest speaker. I have spoken at lots of venues, hundreds of them, Probus Clubs, View Clubs, Seniors’ Clubs, Garden Clubs, Writers’ Clubs, you name it. I am quite willing to go to country areas, providing allowance is made for my transport cost, accommodation if needed, and the like. Some clubs insist on paying me, but I will consider ‘no fee’ if there is a good number of guests and it is easy for me to get there. A book signing is mandatory of course. My talk is inspiring I suppose, entertaining and sometimes hilarious! We have a few good laughs! People tell me they came in feeling glum, and go out smiling and happy. I know I have a good effect on folk. I speak about my life from a humble beginning at Logan Village, using bad grammar, not knowing how to do mental arithmetic … to the tertiary educated person that I now am. I then talk about Sex in Your Seventies, giving a summary of each chapter, getting the laughs as well as the sympathy as I go. My message is: Push your boundaries, even if just by a little … and instead of saying ‘Why ?’ sometimes it is better to say ‘Why not?’ I hope my guest speaking continues. All I require is an audience of forty or more, and the ability to sell my books to any who might wish to purchase them.

HE’S ONLY A MAN… | sexinyourseventies.com

HE’S ONLY A MAN… How sad it is. He made much of me in my capacity of being a great help to the community. I felt really valued as a member. The phone calls were many, and e-mails frequent, all very jolly and jovial…and a little bit flattering. I quite enjoyed them, not taking them seriously, but smiling the while. I suppose they made me feel young and desirable. I was not interested in him as a lover. He was not my type, although he was most intelligent, and quick of mind, qualities I admire. Besides, he had a good wife whom I rather liked. Never did I consider him as a prospect…and I have been known to recognise prospects when I see them! I just enjoyed the banter as one human being to another. It was fun. He often suggested that he visit me, some thirty kilometers away, on official business, to discuss coming events. He came once and I put on a good lunch. We talked about the project, and in so doing he mentioned that he and his wife no longer partook in activities marital. And he missed this. Tsk! Tsk! But he added that she had told him that should he find a willing participant, she would not object as long as he was discreet. Alarm bells ringing…but I was confident that I had never encouraged him in this way at all, and surely he could not be thinking I might be interested? But as it transpired, he was. Of course I made it nicely clear that I was not the one, lonely as I was; being the other woman was not on. My only interest in a future partner would be for the real deal, a full and committed relationship. We left it at that, and I thought our former alliance would resume. But it didn’t. Despite our connection in community involvement, in which my presence is hugely beneficial, the e-mails have disappeared along with the phone calls. Was I only valued as a possible conquest? What about my intellectual qualities? Should he not have continued the messages to some extent, if only to preserve my opinion of him as a humorous friend? I have not berated him in any way, or been judgemental. Only now, with this silence, am I being critical, in my heart, of him as a person. I feel let-down. My self-esteem has been shaken. My aunt would have said, ‘He’s only a man…’ But it does make me feel sad.

HIGH SCHOOL FORMALS | sexinyourseventies.com

HIGH SCHOOL FORMALS I am hearing about the large sums of money spent on the Senior Formals of some private schools. Perhaps this applies to public schools as well. Or not. One mother said the dress for her daughter cost almost a thousand dollars, as well as many hundreds for shoes, hair dos, make-up, eyelash tinting, eyebrows and fake fingernails. Tickets to the formal cost a couple of hundred or more for two, plus corsages at over fifty. Then there is the pre-formal reception for parents, relatives and friends. Graduating boys have the expense of a suit or at least a new jacket, a good shirt and good looking shoes. Not as much as for the girls perhaps, but still a lot for parents to fork out when mortgage payments are a worry. What of those whose parents simply cannot afford this expense at this time? They make some lame excuse that they do not wish to attend. Such lavish expectations create a schism between ‘haves’ and ‘have nots.’ There are those parents who scrimp and save in order to fund the fees for admission to private schools, hoping to give their child the best chance in life, only to find that the expensive social extras such as overseas excursions and social outings are too much for the budget to bear. While we know that school formals make wonderful memories for the participants…and all of that…, could it be that they have become a little overdone?

Historical journey | sexinyourseventies.com

On Thursday, my daughter Susan and I journeyed to Piccabean in Northern NSW. There we viewed the house built by my great-grandparents, Edward and Rosalie Stegemann at Buccan, on the Logan River in about 1884-5. The house was moved and restored in about 1931 by my Uncle Ted, later, much later to be sold for removal by another owner. Then purchased by the present owners, Phil and Jen Robin, who have lovingly restored it. How wonderful! The Wunderlich pressed metal walls and ceilings are still intact, complete with dints. But the lovely tulip design remains. The original arch in the entrance hall is still imposing, the original sash windows still work with a push! The eerie sensation of my forebears walking, sleeping, working in this dwelling quite overwhelmed me. Grandma inherited the place and my father spent his young years living here…on the Logan of course. They were flooded out in the disastrous flood of 1887, retreating to the Reserve up the hill to live on warm cow’s milk straight from the udder for three days or more. It was remarkable that the Robins found me. My name was presented by the Logan Village Historical Society as someone who might be able to help them in their search for the original owners, little realising that I would be so close to those people. In my book Barefoot in Logan Village, there is a chapter ‘The Love Letters et Al’ telling how a box of old photos came into my hands. Among them were photos of the Robins’ house when it was moved by Grandad, my father and Uncle Ted; interiors as they had them. These photos are now proudly displayed in a handsome frame in the old house. Seeing the house, feeling the spirite of previous owners gave me a sense of history…irreplaceable really.

HOSPITALS | sexinyourseventies.com

HOSPITALS Whatever has happened to our hospitals? Once upon a time, the welfare of the patient was the important theme; now it appears that the welfare of the hospital is more important. Or so it appeared to me recently during a stint in a well known, large, private hospital. I was in pain, so it was suggested that I be admitted to hospital, ‘where you will be looked after…’ I just don’t know about that. It was the hospital ‘rules’ that beat me. I was accustomed to having a heated wheat pack on the calves of my legs to alleviate the pain. It was the only thing that worked. I even brought my own wheat pack. But no! Ant sort of heating is not allowed…the hospital does not want to be sued if someone suffers a burn from an overheated pack. I was put on an opium derivative for any pain. This nasty little drug has awful side effects, such as loss of appetite and severe constipation that one is not forewarned about. Surely one should be given high fibre foods or even an aperient before the constipation becomes serious? Hospital food that is brought in from an outside source leaves much to be desired. That dried egg is dreadful. On asking for a poached or boiled egg, the answer is… ‘ no whole eggs are allowed. The hospital does not want to be sued for listeria.’ So the dried egg goes uneaten and the patient who has already lost his appetite because of the opioid, tries his luck with the porridge, which is not too bad. You find yourself hospitalised for a month. Your hair looks most unkempt. Is there a hairdresser available? Surely…this is a private hospital after all…but no, there is not. What about a podiatrist, as my toenails need attention. No, not at this hospital. Well, can someone cut my long fingernails please? (I did not bring implements with me.) No, we do not do that here. Well, could you bring me some nail scissors, and I shall attempt to cut them myself? We do not have anything like that. The house doctor took me off a medication that I had been taking for thirty years, proscribed by an eminent professor of medicine who knows his craft. A battle ensued I can tell you! I was forced to steal and hide the necessary tablets until a specialist rightly decided in my favour. I requested a change of house doctor. I had lost seven kilos in weight and was depressed. I was advised, on the quiet, to get off the painkillers as soon as I could, and to ‘get out of here’ pronto. My son and grand-daughter came to the rescue, hoisting me onto a wheelchair and wheeling me out to their car, paying my account on the way, the relieving doctor protesting that he didn’t think I should be leaving care. I live alone and was really not up to looking after myself. They hated leaving me, but my neighbours kept an eye on me, and I have gradually recovered to a large extent. I have been told that not all hospitals have the same catering arrangements as the one that I encountered. Some arrange for the cafeteria in the same building to supply food to the patients. Poached eggs can be obtained, for example, and any resulting illness would be the liability of the cafeteria. I endorse this system!

Household Chores | sexinyourseventies.com

A very pleasant, well-spoken lady phoned me to order a book. Of course, I asked her about herself, as people want me to do. Was she happy with her life? W-e-e-ell, I suppose so, she said, but it was up to her to keep the home happy. How come? ‘Above all,’ she went on, ‘I wish to live in a happy atmosphere. My man, who is not my husband…he is what is known as my partner…thinks only of himself. Sure, he does the odd jobs around the house, but expects to be waited on by me. I take his food to the table as he sits there. He will look at me if he needs a glass of water, or the salt-cellar, whatever. He expects me to immediately rise and fetch whatever he wants. He was watching television the other night as I was preparing the evening meal. The rubbish needed to be taken out to the bin (just at the back stairs), the pots were begging to be rinsed, and I had both hands occupied with the dinner. A commercial occurred, so I asked him to take the rubbish out. He did. I had a plastic bag ready for him to re-line the container, as I continued serving. He tried to ignore the plastic bag, and shoved the container under my nose, indicating that I re-line it. I pointed to the bag with my elbow as I mashed the potato. Again he shoved it at me. It was clearly his idea that it was solely my responsibility to see to the liner. I spoke firmly that he should do it, which he reluctantly did; then he resumed his seat on the settee, miffed. This happens all the time. I do all of the washing-up, unless I make a big issue of it. I wish he would demonstrate to me that I am valued, a bit precious even. And it is not as if he is the bread winner. Not at all. He contributes, but not all that much. It is just his expectancy that I am the waitress, the lackey, that gets up my nose.’ We all know that during the last fifty years or so, times have changed. Before that, the husband was the lord and master. He was the sole provider; his wife and family were dependent on him. He owned everything. The wife was subservient, except in rare cases. But circumstances have indeed changed. A lot of wives now work full time, and are co-bread winners. Husbands (partners) now share in the household chores, of necessity. It is a selfish partner who expects the other to be subservient in any way.

How it hurts | sexinyourseventies.com

Being hurt emotionally is not solely the realm of the young. I am hurting, and I am old. I know I look and act and feel much younger than my years. My man and I were very happy together for eight years. I supported him in his ventures, which sometimes were not to my liking. We had a good sex life. It was one-sided, I know. He did not live my life as much as I lived his. But I enjoyed looking after him, and I loved him holding me. Our bodies liked each other, and I loved the nearness of him. I believe this was reciprocated. I always loved him dearly. But I became too old for him. He insisted initially that the age difference of a decade did not matter at all…but it did. He was not one who would look after his partner if she became infirm…for a few days maybe, but not long term. He did not have time for that; he was on a mission to develop his inventions, and that came first in his life. He was undermined by a so-called friend, a failed investor, who filled his mind with visions of the number of younger women who were available on the internet. My man spent more and more time at his computer, late to bed, more time in the office, less time for me and the home. He started restricting the hours he could spend helping in the yard. I soon felt inadequate and unloved. When he had an affair, I could hardly cope. He insisted he wanted to stay with me, but it was evident that he was using my premises and me to further his ambitions, and would likely leave when it suited. My ego plummeted. Of course it did; the hurt was so severe. I knew I must keep my dignity, a hard task when all I wanted to do was hit him, hurt him in some way. But he is big and strong, and might have hit me back! When his financial situation worsened and a court case was imminent, I asked him to leave. I knew I would miss him terribly, and I do. He found a new lady quickly on the internet, and she is besotted with him as I was. All I think about are the good things about him, and there are quite a few. I feel discarded and old. Very sad. But I am trying to be dignified whenever I see him. I give him a cup of tea when he calls occasionally to pick up items left here. We are very pleasant to each other. He grabbed me once, as he was leaving, and kissed me seriously. But the knife turns excruciatingly. He has no idea that I am hurting so badly. Am I right to want to be decent and courteous? To hide my feelings? It would help if I knew he was missing me but that his circumstances dictate that he ‘move on.’ I know I must accept that I have loved not wisely but too well.

THE HURT MICKEY | sexinyourseventies.com

The hurt Mickey. I have always been rather fond of the little Mickeys. They are plentiful but seem to do no damage in my vegetable garden. Ten years or more, when I was very lonely, there even was one who would sit on a wire on the trellis and chirp away to me as I worked. He would answer me and did not appear to be afraid. I regarded him as a dear little friend. Last week, Davey, my twenty-year-old, handsome grandson came to mow my large lawn, as usual. As he picked up the small, fallen branches of the gumtrees, he spied a ball of yellowish fluff in the grass. It was a partly-grown Mickey that had fallen from the nest high in one of the gums. Davey held it tenderly in his hand when he found me in the shed. He stroked it and it shivered. ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked, for I was ignorant of such matters. It turned out so was he, but his mother, my daughter, was knowledgeable indeed. She was an ardent bird-watcher and knew their habits. Davey phoned her for instructions. We needed a cardboard box, which I found, and should make a sort of nest in it. Then we should wedge it in a fork of a tree so that the parents would find it and look after their offspring. They would feed it if it were conscious, she said. My daughter Susan arrived by car before we had completed the job, and she took over, changing our nest somewhat and taking a close look at the poor little nestling. ‘He’s not yet half grown,’ she announced, ‘just look at his feathers. Not much at all. It will be lucky to survive. The magpies or kookaburras will probably get him.’ We clucked around, observing his closed eyes, his stillness. But he was breathing. ‘You know he is not really precious,’ Susan ventured. She knew Davey was a softcake and I not much better. ‘But we must do all we can to help him survive,’ she added, as a necessity, in the grave circumstances. ‘He deserves to live, after falling so far,’ Davey commented, giving the bird a parting stroke with his forefinger as Susan hoisted the box into a fork in a shady part of a tall gum. As she made it firm, we noticed a couple of adult Mickeys hovering around. It was a good sign, my daughter opined. My tall, athletic grandson completed the mowing and reported to me on the condition of the bird. ‘It is just the same,’ he said, ‘no movement. I am not too hopeful, Grandma.’ But later, towards evening, when I investigated, its eyes were open and it was managing a small chirp. I just hoped it was being looked after. The next morning, I fearfully peered in the box, and lo! The Mickey”s eyes were open, and its mouth gaped wide, waiting for food! Its chirp was much stronger…it must have been fed. That afternoon, it had moved to the other side of the box, although it appeared to have no movement of its undercarriage. The mouth still opened wide in expectation. I was nervous the following day as I walked down the yard to the tree. I knew that predators were plentiful. But the little patient was still there in exactly the same position, still squawking. Good! I tried to have a good look at the extent of its feathers, as Susan had requested. But a sudden rushing over my head frightened me! Was it a magpie? Another swooping rush, so close, made me run for cover. As I darted away, yet another blast of air assailed me, and I covered my head in fear! Then I saw the adult Mickey swoop a couple of times before flying high into the other gumtree. He was warning me to stay away from his baby. Or perhaps it was the mother? In any case, it warmed my heart.

I KNEW HOW BRIDGET FELT… | sexinyourseventies.com

I KNEW HOW BRIDGET FELT… I knew how she felt. I had felt like it once, when I was about six. Over seventy years ago. Our family had been on a rare outing in those depression days. We had motored from the dairy farm at Buccan to Beenleigh, (where I had been born in a nursing home), to attend the local Agricultural Show. I, along with Marty and Joan, had been given the huge sum of one shilling each (ten cents) to spend. There was no doubt about what I was going to do with mine. When we finally arrived in Side Show Alley, I could see the stalls where you threw the darts, or rolled the balls, to win a prize. The prize that I wanted was a ring! I only wanted to go to one of these tented spaces, because I had seen the array of rings of all colours and shapes. I tendered my money. Adults were charged sixpence a try, for children it was only threepence, the smart-talking man said. He knew he had me in his palm… My first throw of the dart missed any lucky numbers, so I paid up for another. This time I landed a lucky square! It was hard to choose a ring, they were all so lovely. I settled on a blue stone, a rectangular one. But the yellow one beckoned…so I paid up again. The proprietor was delighted. And again I scored! The yellow ring was mine. They were all sized to fit an adult finger, but it did not matter to me; I could twine cotton around the shank to make it stay on my little fingers somehow. My mother bade me move on. I had done well, she said. Perhaps I should buy an ice cream, she suggested. But the remaining threepence burned away in my red purse, and later in the day, when we were all tired from looking at cattle, cows, bulls, fruit and vegetables, sample bags and fairy floss, we made our weary way to our Chevrolet Tourer. We went by the stall where I had won the rings. I pleaded with my parents to let me have another try. It’s her money, my mother said to Dad, who said I was just throwing it away. There were not too many rings left, but an oval red stone completely won my heart. My first try landed on a line, which meant a loss. But the man remembered me as being a good customer, and he said he would let me have another ‘go’. This time I scored, and the red ring was mine! On the way home, I showed my loot to Joan, who tried my rings on rather enviously. She had spent her money on two sample bags, and was loaded down with chocolates, sherbet sticks, White Knights and chewing gum. She did not ask for any of my rings, and I knew better than to ask for any of her sweets. But on an evening soon after, our school master and his wife Mary had called in on their way back from Brisbane. As usual, my Mother asked them to stay for tea. This terrified me no end! Our teacher, Old Pa Brown to tea! And I was always seated next to him at the large country table. ‘Would you like some milk, Doreen,’ he would say, always stressing the last syllable of my name ie: Dahree-een, which nobody else ever did. I suppose I replied, ‘Yes please…’ And he would pour some into my nallyware mug. I must have been six years old. After the meal there was the usual small talk. ‘Why don’t you show Mrs Brown your rings?’ my mother suggested. Of course, I dutifully fetched them for the good lady to enthuse over. They surely were quite aware that I was painfully shy. Mary Brown tried each one on, admiring them no end. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘this blue one is exactly the same colour as the frock I am wearing to an important dinner next week. I don’t suppose you would lend it to me for the occasion?’ I was stricken. Let one of my precious possessions out of my sight? I might never get it back! And the blue one! My favourite! My mother might have been a little embarrassed at my reticence. ‘Of course you’ll lend it to Mrs Brown…won’t you? Won’t you, Doreen?’ I knew it was settled. I nodded, looking down as I did. ‘I’ll wear it to keep it safe,’ the good lady said as she admired my blue ring on her finger along with her wedding and engagement rings, ‘and don’t worry, I shall return it. Thank you, Dahree-een!’ I could have wept, and I felt so sad. But some weeks later, on another visit, the ring was returned to me, safe and sound. So when Bridget was showing me the several hairclips that she had won in a lucky dip, and I remarked that I was looking for a nice little clasp like that; and her mother (my daughter) had said immediately, ‘Why don’t you give one to Grandma?’ I could understand the dismay that had made her lips droop. They were so pretty, a delicate turquoise, they were so recently acquired…and they were hers! “No, no,’ I protested, but it was too late. To refuse her generous grandma would be too awful. To give would be a terrible wrench. ‘You have four of them,’ the mother insisted, and generosity won. She selected the least loved clasp and gave it to me. I promised to love it always, and have often worn it when visiting their home. She always notices. She is aged four.

I THINK IT IS CALLED ‘GROWING UP’! | sexinyourseventies.com

I have been forced to do this twice in my life. Neither time was easy. Both episodes caused me much heart-ache. But in neither instance could I ask for family sympathy, because, as they said, I had asked for it! The first time occurred when I was in my fifties. I was separated from my husband, and the man in question was married…unhappily, so he said. Although to this day, he is still with his wife. He was my art teacher. I ran the art classes for the local school that my children attended. This man and I were a good team. We were both starved for affection, and over a couple of years, a strong bond developed between us. I thought he was marvellous, much more marvellous than he really was, and he referred to me as ‘the love of my life.’ Oh…life was sweet indeed. Until I wanted more. I needed more. I needed a permanent commitment from him. I had that, he said. But I wanted a home together. My children expected it, and I knew he loved only me. Why not finalise his marriage, pay his wife out, give her everything if necessary. End the charade, I said, make an honest woman of me. Let us live our lives out together. Eight times I sent him away when he could not comply, and seven times I took him back. It took fourteen years. He had all sorts of excuses. He had all sorts of reasons for coming back. ‘I can’t live with that woman any longer,’ he would declare. And I would believe him. And love him. Oh yes, I have loved well…not wisely but too well. Finally, I found strength through the affect of this situation on my children. I wanted a family outing. He was not able to get away and they were disappointed. It became clear to me what my life would continue to be like, and I bit the bullet. I knew I meant it, that it would be forever, but I did it. He phoned, begging to see me, but I was adamant. It took five years for me to stop crying, both inside and out. Just imagine how awful it was for my three daughters. And now it has happened again. Decades later. I do not feel quite as devastated this time, but I am still pretty upset. Of course, I kick myself that I was gulled once again. I must be flawed, some say. But I consider that it is my deep need for tenderness in my life that is my undoing. The girls warned me. ‘Don’t expect us to pick up the pieces when it all falls through,’ they said. They had a point, I knew. He was younger than I by twelve years. My youthful appearance had fooled him initially as he pursued me. He didn’t care about my age. We were a good couple, and he needed a home. Oh yes, he was needy all right, but I rather liked that. I was a natural nurturer. How I looked after him! I asked for little in return. Just the truth and your allegiance, I remember saying. In the end, I received neither. But we have had eight years of contentment, working away, he at his project, while I made the house a home. It was lopsided, I knew. But I needed his physical strength, and again as ever, I needed affection. But as his project faltered and he spent more and more time in his office in my shed, my dismay grew as I perceived my own unimportance. When his project succeeded, he informed everyone, he would take it off-shore. What, leave me? I could go if I wanted, of course, but he knew that was out of the question for me. So I smiled and continued. Jaded, but hanging in there. The crunch came when it all went belly-up. His investors claimed false pretence or something. Threatening. I suggested he find somewhere else to live, to protect my property on which we lived. We had an agreement protecting each other’s property from the other. But there was no agreement protecting me from angry investors who could possibly claim that a de facto relationship rendered my property vulnerable. He readily agreed to find another place to live. I thought it meant he would find a little flat in this vicinity, and life for us would continue. How wrong I was! For him it meant finding another woman, like I had been, who had a home, and would take him in. Look after him while he furthered his passion for investment. How that one hurt… I stuck to my guns, not wanting to lose him, not wanting to live alone on a difficult property. But I could not risk it. And he pursued several women (even while still living under my roof) none of whom would take him on. So he has finally settled for two rooms in a nice house, some distance away, where he can store his possessions, sit on his computer, and contemplate his next move. I miss him cruelly, as unsatisfactory as it was at times. I cannot ask my daughters for sympathy. I can just learn from my mistakes.

IF YOU ARE NOT HAVING SEX… | sexinyourseventies.com

IF YOU ARE NOT HAVING SEX, IT DOES NOT MATTER! So what! You aren’t getting any? Big deal! We have been brought up to feel that we are inadequate if we do not have a man in our life. Okay, it is nice and convenient to have a partner if one goes dancing, for example. Or at a dinner party or other group, to be the only one who is on her own can be disconcerting. But it need not be a disadvantage. It can be liberating! Yes, I do love to have someone drive me somewhere, because I am not the world’s most experienced driver. And I am getting old, if that’s what you call nearly eighty-two. But it is certainly good for me when I push my boundaries and get there under my own steam. Or a lady friend takes the wheel. Just think, a lot of male drivers hate to be chastened in any way…for going too fast, for fiddling with the air-conditioning, for having awful music playing, for ‘star-gazing’. The list can go on and on. And remonstrating means tension, stress. We can do without that. So don’t feel under-privileged if you must drive yourself. Feel free! Clever! Independent! At the dinner party, don’t feel constrained to hide your light under a bushel! Be your old self! Sure, we want everyone, including the wives, to like us. But that doesn’t mean ignoring the husbands and cosying up to the women only, unless that is where your conversational interest lies. Treat them all as ‘people’. Do not bat your eyes at a man, of course, unless you want to invoke the ire of his partner. Do not monopolise any one man. Be sensible. But do not shrink into a corner as if you are a lesser human. Remember your hostess asked you because of your ability to contribute to the success of the evening, and I daresay you would like to be asked again. And the sex. Yes, it is important to feel loved. Wonderful to receive affection…and to give it. Granted, those orgasms are good for one. We know that. But it is not all beer and skittles. There is a downside…the cystitis, the complications, lot of them. And it is the woman who pays as a rule. It can be unsatisfactory, with unequal desires, and pressure to perform. Or even a less than satisfying union, with ungratified sex and longing. Are you being ‘used’? I will say it once…whisper it…there are other ways. Another very prevalent situation is one where there is a couple, but no sex. It’s common, among all ages. And the reasons vary. Sometimes it is the woman who desists. Sometimes, not often, it is the man. Sometimes they just grow into the habit of refraining from making the effort. And it doesn’t matter, as long as they are nice to each other and are happy; as long as there is affection, caring, helpfulness and kindness, with no resentment from either party. It must be simply wonderful to be in a perfect relationship, or even one in which one had no reason for complaint about how one was treated. Yes, it must be marvellous. And there really seems to be in existence those unions that appear to be made in Heaven. But it doesn’t happen to all of us. So let’s not feel second-class if we do not have a man to woo us. Or if we are just not getting any sex.

INSIGHT FORUM SBS | sexinyourseventies.com

INSIGHT When I accepted an invitation to be part of the forum on the SBS program ‘Insight’, I thought it was just a matter of flying to Sydney, playing my part in the taping of the program, returning to my hotel and coming home the next day. No so. The subject matter being discussed by the forum is whether sex involving seniors is a taboo topic, especially for the young (and more). Because I have written the book ‘Sex in Your Seventies’, it was presumed that I would have an opinion on this. And I certainly do. I said that I have often been asked by one of my children that I do not ‘mention the book’ when in a gathering of any sort. I always assure them kindly that I will not. But inevitably it happens that someone will greet me, and say something like ‘Saw you on television…how’s the book going?’ I will then look to my child for permission to speak. Quite funny when you realise that I have been the guest speaker at hundreds of large and important meetings, where I have spoken of my life and THE BOOK! At question time, I have replied as best I could to queries on sex, sex and more sex! But my children do not want to hear about it. Yes, the matter is taboo indeed with the young and middle-aged. They definitely do not want to hear about their parents’ love-life. And it is worse when the parents have separated and mother (in particular) takes a lover. They do not like it at all and feel embarrassed, if not ashamed. I mentioned this to the producer of Insight. She then asked if my daughter would also appear on the forum? Her opinion was interesting. Of course. I had told her of another daughter’s opposition to my last partner. Because she is a straight talker, my daughter made no bones about this to me at anyone. Now they want her on the program also. Am I to be crucified? I have had three long term relationships since their father and I parted, only one of which was a live-in situation. My daughters found it difficult to accept that I was sharing my bed with a ‘strange man!’ Once, when staying the night at my daughter’s home, my man and I were not allowed to share the same bunk bed. He was put on a made-up mattress in the hall outside my room. Morning came and he crept into my bed, where my son-in-law found us when he announced that breakfast was ready… It was the same when we visited his daughter. We were put in different rooms. No one minded. They were simply making a point. Had we been married, it would have been different, but the main reason we did not wed was to protect their heritage, our estates. The present laws regarding property are bringing about a community of singles, living alone, when they would rather live in pairs, helping each other and living in double harness. When we visited my man’s sister for the weekend, it was I who was put on a made-up bed on the floor of the sunroom. He slept in a single bed in an adjacent room. My little bunk was very comfortable, and I didn’t mind sleeping there at all, but I woke early and sneaked into his bed where I had company in a strange house. It was not for sex, just simply to avoid feeling lonely. We were lying there chatting, my head on his arm, when they came to awaken us for breakfast. His sister was not amused! I saw the same look on her face when we were watching television. He and I both put our feet (in socks) on the one pouffe, and our toes eventually touched and sort of caressed. Shock, horror! I firmly believe that when you are aged, most of the community can hardly bear the thought of you having a love-life. Only those who are involved in a sexual relationship themselves can appreciate how it is.

It’s hard to kick a dog when he is down | sexinyourseventies.com

It’s hard to kick a dog when he is down. There was a woman who was unhappy with her husband. He was not very nice to her, and did not allow her to have much self-esteem. He was not much of a success himself. Eventually she met another chap who made her feel good about herself, who appreciated her. She planned to leave her husband and ‘take up’ with this other man. She was all packed up, ready to ‘flit’, and she looked out of the window. There was her hapless, thoughtless husband in the vegetable garden, looking at the soil where he had planted a row of beans some two weeks before. They should have been up and sprouting by then. He looked sadly at the ground where he had planted the seeds, expectantly, dejectedly. Not one was in sight. She slowly began to unpack. She could not leave him.

Knee Deep in Logan Village – eBook (PDF) | sexinyourseventies.com

An anecdotal and oral history of three Generations who lived and toiled in the Logan Village District … This year, Logan Village is celebrating 150 years of white settlement. My great-grandparents, Adolf Ludwig and Emilie Wendt, were among those first settlers. Their farm, Pleasant View, on the Logan River at Chambers Flat, lies across the river from Logan Village. Four generations of Wendts have farmed this property. My grandfather Hermann was born there, as was my father Harry. But it was Ludwig’s second son Otto, and Otto’s son Stanley who remained on the farm. Ivan is Stan’s youngest son, and it is he who operates this successful dairy farm today. Having written a previous book, Barefoot in Logan Village, which is being re-printed for this occasion, I have endeavoured to add to the picture that I had already painted in this book of life in the ‘old days.’ (click on the photo for an enlarged version) Please note: this is an Acrobat PDF computer file (not printed) for viewing on your computer. You may print it out if you wish. After payment, you will be redirected to a link which you can click on to download the book. The file will open with Adobe Acrobat (which is found on just about every computer today, or is freely available from the adobe.com website in case you do not have it).

Knee Deep in Logan Village – paperback | sexinyourseventies.com

An anecdotal and oral history of three Generations who lived and toiled in the Logan Village District … This year, Logan Village is celebrating 150 years of white settlement. My great-grandparents, Adolf Ludwig and Emilie Wendt, were among those first settlers. Their farm, Pleasant View, on the Logan River at Chambers Flat, lies across the river from Logan Village. Four generations of Wendts have farmed this property. My grandfather Hermann was born there, as was my father Harry. But it was Ludwig’s second son Otto, and Otto’s son Stanley who remained on the farm. Ivan is Stan’s youngest son, and it is he who operates this successful dairy farm today. Having written a previous book, Barefoot in Logan Village, which is being re-printed for this occasion, I have endeavoured to add to the picture that I had already painted in this book of life in the ‘old days.’ (click on the photos for an enlarged version)

KNEE REPLACEMENT | sexinyourseventies.com

All is now pretty good. I had a left knee replacement in October, and I am only now starting to appreciate the operation. I had been in considerable pain and was limping all the time. It has been quite an ordeal. I had expected it to be painful, but it seemed to go on for so long that one felt one was becoming a whinger! The anaesthetic must have been marvellous, because one minute I was sitting on the edge of the operating table chatting nervously, the next I was in recovery, having had the operation. The attention was good and I felt I was coping well. It was unfortunate that the only vacant bed was in the cardiac unit, and I was wheeled there. I thought I was in the orthopaedic ward, as I normally would have been. No one came near me after the initial move. I rang the bell for a drink of water, and a jug and glass were brought in. I was given a drink and the vessels were placed on a cabinet out of my reach. I was being shifted to the correct ward, I was told, and my belongings were all piled onto my bed with me. The only thing within my reach was the telephone and the bell. After some hours, I pressed the buzzer, with no response. Many times I did this, the same. I could not see into the hallway, which seemed deserted, but at last I heard footsteps, and called out, ‘Help!’ A physiotherapist came in, amazed at my tears, and said she would summon help. But there was nothing. Another hour or two passed and I was beginning to panic. There was no movement at all down the corridor. I was desperate, presuming I had been forgotten. What to do? Both of my daughters were at work. The only phone number I could recall was that of my ex-husband, so I phone him and asked him for help. ‘I’ll be right up!’ he replied. When Colin got there and raised a bit of a riot (I believe), there was some action, but not much. I was in the wrong ward for surgery, they said. The wardsman was busy but would move me soon. They were not too worried about my distress, and chatted away among themselves. When I was in the surgical ward, things were different altogether. The hospital secretary came to apologise for the neglect, and I was decent about it. I had a crowd in the room, Colin and my son-in-law Scott who had been despatched to see what the fuss was. It was all plain sailing from then on. The next week was painful indeed, even with the painkillers. And the physios had me out of bed, walking with crutches, all for my own good. Going to the toilet was excruciating. But every day brought an improvement in movement in the exercises prescribed. Then I was transferred to Rehab., which was the old hospital of fifty years ago, a lovely old place of four-bed wards, with a common bathroom. Quite okay. We were obliged to walk with our sticks, crutches or trolleys to the dining room for lunch. Breakfast and our evening meal could be partaken in the ward, but on a chair. There was a gymnasium, and every morning at eight, we had to be showered and fed before reporting to the Gym for our exercises. There was a certain camaraderie among the patients. We had a very noisy person in our ward, but there was no single room available for her until the night before I left. Otherwise we all got along well. The nights were broken of course, because if one patient wanted assistance, the rest of us were woken, no matter how quiet the nurses tried to be. After two more weeks, I went to Colin’s house(which used to be my home) to fully recuperate before coming home. I was there for three weeks, and he looked after me well. He understood my discomfort, because he had a similar operation nine years ago, and remembered it well! My daughters visited me, but they were able to go home and look after their young families, safe in the knowledge that I was in good hands. Finally I came home, and it certainly was difficult. The stairs were hard to negotiate, and I could not even water my garden. But Judy, a friend in the next street, brought my mail in every day, and ran any messages for me. I had plenty of food in the freezer and pantry. I managed with my new walking stick, finally walking round the garden. I have pushed my boundaries every day, knowing that the less I did, the less I would be able to do. Judy still checks on me each day, but I walk down the street unaided, after four months. The stick lies at the ready in the living room, but I do not need it. I can roll over in bed without wincing. Yes, I am glad I had the operation!

LIVING WITH A DISABILITY | sexinyourseventies.com

LIVING WITH A DISABILITY I have a granddaughter who has ataxia, a form of cerebral palsy. She has a weakness in her hands, her tongue muscle and in the muscles of one leg. This means she cannot run, her fingers will not grasp smaller objects and her speech is sometimes hard to understand. She is fifteen and pretty, with a ready smile. Because of her disability, she has slipped through the cracks at school and does not possess much academic knowledge. She is a great reader however, and yearns to be like the other kids. At her age, they are all looking for after school jobs. Some of her peers have landed places at fast food outlets, to the envy of the others! But now we are thrilled that her local supermarket, in Brisbane, has given her a job, on contract for ten hours a week, for a probationary period of six months. She is so happy to be feeling so useful. Her parents are happy and grateful to the manager for giving her a chance to feel competent. She has been packing groceries into bags and even scanning; doing quite well but needing help with weighty objects. The rest of the staff are most encouraging and helpful to her, a change indeed from some other areas where she has not experienced inclusiveness, and has even been shunned. The kindness that has been extended to her has restored her parents’ faith in human nature.

LOGAN VILLAGE HERITAGE FESTIVAL | sexinyourseventies.com

Last year Logan Village celebrated 150 years of white settlement. This year, it was decided to keep that spirit alive, and have another heritage festival. Just one day, Sunday 14th September…last Sunday. I played quite a large role last year, being the guest speaker at the Heritage Dinner at the local hotel. During proceedings, my second book about Logan Village was launched by the Federal Member. The book, titled ‘Knee Deep in Logan Village’ is a trilogy, written in the voices of my grandmother, my father and myself. It is about life as it was lived in those eras. My grandmother, who lived till she was 98, and to whom I listened avidly both as a child and an adult, tells of her first twelve years in Schleswig-Holstein, during which the family lost three members in a month to diphtheria; and her early years in Australia; settling with her parents at Buccan and meeting her future husband; giving birth during the night, then having to get up and skin a calf the next morning; of learning from her children how to read and write; and the hardships and pleasures endured during her life on the dairy farm. My father recounts his first ten years at Chambers Flat, on the property settled by his grandfather in 1863; the move to Buccan when his maternal grandfather became mortally ill; the Light Horse Army Reserve and meeting Agatha; the flood; the depression; becoming the local Councillor for Waterford; building the Logan Village Hall; and the vicissitudes of dairy farming on unresponsive land in difficult times. I speak of my childhood at Buccan, walking barefoot five kilometres to school at Logan Village; Marty; our sole teacher Mr Brown; the hidings with the black razor strop that ensued when we disobeyed our fearful mother and risked our lives adventuring with Marty; the dances in the hall; Dooley, my unkempt dog who saved my life when I was three; and the six cuts of the cane for swearing at school. The first book that I wrote about life in Logan Village is now studied at the school and by the book club. I am quoted often. At the festival on Sunday, there were excerpts from’ Barefoot in Logan Village’ dotted around the several acres of Village Green whereon the festival was held. I was given one half of the verandah on the Western side of the museum. This cottage was once the fettler’s home at Buccan; I remember the house well, just across the road from the Buccan siding, where the train and railmotor would stop if necessary. On the other half sat a very talented musician and vocalist who played his great organ and sang all the old songs that my parents used to sing in our Chevvy tourer on the way home from an annual trip to Brisbane. Those who were holding a sausage sizzle on the lawn nearby sang along with us. I displayed my three books, book signing when called upon. There were many stalls selling arts and crafts…and Devonshire teas. There was music everywhere. The old school that my father, grandfather and I attended stood proud in the midst of the throng. The old schoolmaster’s residence that is now a thriving library, and several historic cottages used for sale of arts and crafts, teas, and museum purposes are now surrounded by landscaped gardens and walks that are a credit to the volunteers who developed them from the council-designated design. The Commemorative Wall built from huge sandstone blocks (retrieved from the Story property after a recent flood) that had once been part of a building used to house Kanakas in transit to Townsvale (at Veresdale) has been rebuilt with an appropriate explanatory plaque. At the end of the day, stall holders packed up and left the Village Green. I drove around the corner where once my grandparents lived in their lovely home Birkenfelde; past the green depression in the brown field that signified where Grandad’s duck pond was; met the main road at the Pub corner and looked fleetingly at the Forest of Memories across the road. These imposing structures were installed by Logan Council to commemorate last year’s celebrations. The illuminated picture panels were taken in the main from my books, and are predominantly of my family, the reason being that my mother was one of the few who owned a Box Brownie camera, it being gained by default when the measly monthly cream cheque arrived and my disgusted father threw it to my mother, saying she could have the b…. thing, that we could starve for all he cared! And it is my hard-working, caring father who looks at me from the panel facing the main road. He is in his Light Horse uniform, astride his Indian motorbike, a wide smile on his face. He is happy, newly-wed and times were buoyant. I salute you, Lieutenant Harry Wendt, and all those who helped make the interesting, historical place that Logan Village is today!

LOGAN VILLAGE, THE PIONEERS’ LUNCHEON | sexinyourseventies.com

LOGAN VILLAGE…THE FIRST 150 YEARS As a descendant of one of the pioneering families of the Logan Village district, I was invited to be a special guest at the ‘Pioneers Lunch’ to be held on 14th April 2012. The venue was on the top of the hill overlooking Logan Village, now a lovely residential development named ‘My Home and The River’, but formerly the farm of my great-uncle Charlie Wendt, who lived with his family in an imposing colonial farmhouse with verandahs on three sides, right there where we sat. When our genial master of ceremonies spoke of the virtues of life on this hill, I thought…of course, they are the same qualities that Charlie would have recognised, the breeze, the view, the proximity to the Logan River, but he would also have valued the quality of the soil, the land itself, for he was a dairy farmer, as they almost all were who took up residence here in 1863. The committee is planning a celebration next year to commemorate the founding of the ‘Town of Logan’, as it was designated. Ideas and input would be appreciated from interested parties, and morning-teas will be held three monthly to discuss any notions. But first, on with the show today! And what a day we had, about a hundred of us. My cousin, Lee Wendt joined with me in a small group. We sat at our luncheon table with his brother Ivan (who still farms our great-grandfather’s place at Chamber’s Flat, right on the river), some local politicians, and several other old stagers. A bowl of proteas graced the centre of our table. They were interested in my old photos, enlargements of which I had brought in an album. Circa 1930, it included a photo of the home built at the foot of Charlie’s hill, in Logan Village itself, in which my grandparents, Bertha and Hermann resided after they had retired from farming at Buccan, some five kilometres to the east, towards Brisbane. It was a beautiful home, called Birkenfelde (field of birches, named after Grandma’s birthplace in Germany), with a staircase (from the front verandah) that divided at a landing, some eight steps going both ways, to the north and south. Oh yes, it was elegant all right, and the interior was no different. The bedrooms and lounge were lined with Wunderlich’s zinc anneal panels, and they had both a piano and a pianola that we and our father and cousins would play from time to time. Today, the house would probably earn heritage classification, but sadly, though not madly at the time, it was pulled down piece by piece by the very hands that had constructed it, Grandad and his two sons, Ted and Harry (my father). They built several new houses in Dunellan Estate, now Greenslopes, using the marked timbers and whatever else was usable, when my grandparents moved to Brisbane in (about) 1939. There was a stage in the big marquee on that festive day. Our compère opened proceedings, then announced that Doreen Wendt-Weir was going to speak about the old days. He told the audience, who mostly knew, that I had written the book ‘Barefoot in Logan Village’, and was qualified to speak on the subject, as I had been born in the district and had attended the Logan Village School. It came as a surprise that I was speaking so early in the proceedings, but I rose and approached the stage. Horror! There were some six stairs, and no handrail! Impossible with these eighty-three year-old knees! ‘You’ll have to help me, ‘ I said, and eager, strong arms were offered. The rest was easy. I stood and spoke for over my allotted time, and could have told my listeners a lot more. Then I asked for help down the stairs! I spoke about Uncle Charlie, my grandparents and Birkenfelde, recalling the four pink glass jelly-mould castors that Grandma had under the legs of her heavy dining table, and that I presently have under the legs of my old sofa. I told of Mrs. Mary Brown, (wife of Alec Brown, the school teacher) who held Sunday School for a time in the ‘front room’ of the school house. My sister Joan and I attended, sat on the hand-hewn oak chaise, and were in awe of the gramophone with it’s big, blue trumpet, on which Mrs Brown would play the cylindrical recordings of someone singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and ‘Shall We Gather At The River.’ I was a very shy child, and sang along, but I was puzzled indeed. Our parents threatened us with the much dreaded strap if we went anywhere near the river, and here was some fellow asking us to gather there! We said nothing about these exhortations…but I did mention that some thirty years later, Mrs Brown telephoned me to say that she thought I was the only one who would be interested in the old sofa, and would I like it? Dad and I collected the old chaise, covered in dust and hornet’s nests, from under her retirement home at West End. I had it restored and it now holds pride of place in my living room. I collapse on it daily after a vigorous stint in my garden, and I think often of the Sunday School in Logan Village in the school house that is now the library. The community hall still stands. It was desperately needed in the growing district. There was an old hall that had been owned, I believe, by Mr Lot Randle. It was near the railway line, but was now old and too small for the present needs. I sang, aged three, at a local talent quest in this hall. Gerald Tesch put me forward, saying, ‘This little girl can sing.’ I had no knowledge of the plan, but my mother bade me sing ‘Roamin’ in the Gloamin’. I wouldn’t comply and insisted on singing an old beer shanty that my father would sing on occasions. They stood me on an Austrian-bent chair. I would not take my coat off. But I sang confidently and brought the house down! Silver coins were thrown to me, and I quickly got down from my perch and gathered them up, as more money was thrown. The hall was built by the local men, mostly farmers, who each gave one Sunday a month toward construction of the building. They would gather and do whatever was necessary at the time. It was opened in 1933, a huge day of celebration, and dancing continued all night. Dances were then held regularly, with Charlie Taylor and his band of three supplying the music. Later Pearl Watt and her three-piece band took over for many years. I have been fortunate to attend a lot of these popular dances in recent years. In fact, I was chosen to be ‘Mrs. Logan Village’ in 2004. I wore my sash to prove it! Sadly, the hall committee became very tired and old, and gave the community hall to the Lions Club (about 2006) with the proviso that the bi-monthly dances continue. These gatherings meant a great deal to the social structure of many lives, and it was a monumental sadness when the Lions felt unable to continue this practice. Grandma and Minnie Storey had a small, enclosed corner of the verandah where they sold drinks, lollies and the precious ice-cream! There were no refrigerators in Logan Village at that time, there being no electricity supply, and ice-cream was a treat! On the day of a dance, a large, round canvas container would arrive by train. It held the cylindrical, aluminium ice-cream vat inside, packed in dry ice. This would remain hard and cold until the next morning. Threepenny cones were dispensed, as well as penny ice-creams served coneless in drinking glasses with one of Grandma’s spoons. These were much better value to a child, especially if your grandmother served you! I was later approached by one of the Randles. His grandfather had run the one and only store. He said he knew that Ted Randle had owned a refrigerator, and questioned the lack of electricity of which I had spoken. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and I remember when he first bought a small domestic refrigerator. He put a sign out that ice-blocks would be available the next morning. Whoopee! We all lined up before school with our half-pennies, and were served a small iceblock made from raspberry jelly, held in a square of butcher’s paper. Delicious! My grandparents’ house still used kerosene lamps with a ‘Gloria’ light in the living room until it’s demolition. Our farm, thanks to Dad’s ingenuity, had it’s own generator that supplied a weak light for the house, and enough to run the milking machines if the engine were kept running. But there was no refrigerator. We were entertained at our luncheon by a barbershop quartet called the Hope Island Harmonies. They were very professional, brilliant in my opinion. I was delighted to find that one of the four singers was Owen Buckley from Tamborine Mountain, where I also lived, and where he is revered for his singing prowess. After the customary hugs, and we had taken our places at table, the quartet advanced on me! Such joy! They sang to me. To me! ‘Heart of My Heart’ was perfect, I thought. And of course, they treated each and every one else with the same attention during the several hours that we were there. I saw the same rapt smile on many faces as I undoubtedly worn on mine. To finish, they returned to me to sing ‘The Irish Blessing’, one of my favourites (may the road rise to meet you…may the wind be always at your back…) Thank you so much. Our hot, catered dinner was served from a vehicle outside our enclosure. I enjoyed good roast beef; some had chicken. The linen napery was admired. Alcoholic beverages were offered and our local councillor, Sean, brought us fruitcup ad infinitum. We were asked to look at the underside of our chairs. If there was a yellow spot there, we were to take home the floral decoration on our table. By three o’clock, it was all over. What a day! We farewelled the many relatives and friends. I said goodbye to Lee and Ivan. I thanked the organisers, Wendy Duke and Bev Gill for their splendid effort. I look forward to the next gathering with pleasant anticipation. And the proteas on my dining table are opening beautifully. Doreen Wendt-Weir 07 5545 2100 doreenwendtweir@gmail.com www.sexinourseventies.com

THE MEAT ANTS ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL | sexinyourseventies.com

We walked barefoot to school at Logan Village. The gravel road near the Quinzy Creek bridge was sometimes covered in large meat-ant’s nests. These big red ants packed a powerful sting of which we were most aware. Joan and I skirted round the nests, but one day, Marty felt brave and announced that he was going to walk through the nest. He had a heavy cold and was carrying a much soiled man’s handkerchief. As he heroically marched on, of course he was bitten and ran, yelping, out of the nest. But he dropped his hanky in so doing…we all ran on. I suppose Marty used his shirt sleeve for the rest of the day. We took to the road again that afternoon, quite determined to avoid the meat ants. But lo! As we approached nervously, we could see something on top of the nest! It was Marty’s hanky that he sorely need right now. Gingerly, he used a long stick to retrieve the handkerchief and wipe his sore, red nose. To his surprise and delight, the material was clean and soft and dry, having been cleansed by the ants during the long, hot day. By their diligence, they had restored a very grubby piece of cloth into a pristine handkerchief of great comfort to a ten-year old boy; not to mention the avid interest of his two little companions!

MEDICAL ASSISTANCE, NOW AND THEN | sexinyourseventies.com

What a difference a few decades make! When I was a growing girl in the city, our doctor lived a few streets away. He practiced from home, and would make a lot of house calls; needs must, because in those days just prior to WWII, there would be only one car to a household, if that, and the bread-winner would probably need it daily. A big, sick child could not be lumped in the mother’s arms to a doctor’s surgery streets away. My big sister frequently suffered from ear abscesses, and this painful condition was always treated by the doctor himself as she sat up in her own bed. Lancing might be necessary. Peroxide drops that foamed the detritus out of her ear canal would be swabbed away until it ran clear. I do not recall any hand washing as he gave my mother instructions regarding the ear’s after-care, but we all felt better and relieved after his visit. An account would be sent by the end of the month, not one to ever break the bank and cause distress, usually a half guinea (10/6), which was five cents more than a dollar, a manageable amount when the father’s wage would be perhaps eight dollars weekly. It was always possible to talk on the landline to our doctor if he were available. Willing to discuss the patient’s progress or otherwise, he would give free advice and allay fears prior to his next visit, or listen intently and suggest that he call the ambulance to take the sick person to hospital, which visit he would arrange himself, and make all the calls necessary. Unless requested, no other medical person, specialist or otherwise was involved. Our doctor was a very well-respected man, and no wonder. He took our tonsils out, set our fractures, removed our appendices and gall-bladders and delivered our babies. So what do we do today? First, on phoning the medical practice, we must listen to a long, recorded diatribe about the rules pertaining to making an appointment, before being connected to a helpful receptionist who will sort out our needs and make the earliest appointment with the appropriate general practitioner. With luck, this could be in a few days’ time, but it might be several weeks before we can discuss our problem with our preferred doctor! And, of course, the visit is limited to fifteen minutes, after which an extra charge is levied. If one wishes to have a discussion per phone, one must make a tele-appointment, a paid consultation that is generally available within a few days. A rare, very costly home visit is mostly out of the question. If the situation is dire, then one calls the ambulance. It is the Paramedic who decides what is to be done, where one is to be taken. After a long wait in Emergency, admission and ward allocation, one finally sees the specialist who is in charge of the case. Our general practitioner is not on the scene at all. The faces are all unfamiliar and we must hope for the best. It generally is, but discussion is not encouraged as time seems to be of the essence. Our next-of-kin is hard put getting information, and only with the patient’s permission. While there are exceptions to every rule, it is obvious that conditions have changed radically. And, from the patient’s point of view, not for the better.

Meghan’ Return Home | sexinyourseventies.com

She left for London and adventure when she was nineteen. An attractive creature, she appeared to be full of confidence. I suppose she really was, as she left us at the airport, with her rucksack on her back. Her cousin worked in London, this being her only connection. She readily obtained a job, and found a place to live. She then got a second job, as she wanted to see England and the Continent. Then she met Jamie, and together they toured around. They moved in together, and subsequently wed. They are a great couple. Both are intent on working hard and saving money. They are attractive physically, but are also beautiful on the inside. She has been home a week. She and Jamie visited me from their base forty ks away, and we had a superlative visit. Her beaming smile is there still, her eagerness to please. They are now eager to get work. He would like to work in the construction field, she in administration. But they will accept anything for now. In the lull before she left, she did my household cleaning for me; did it so well; cleaned the skirting boards, the light switches, the tiles, windows and walls. I rewarded her with a small amount; something. Yes, she would help me again, this granddaughter of mine, who is now twenty-three, a woman of the world. But she doesn’t want me to pay her. (We’ll see…). Again the wondrous, loving smile. They asked me about myself, really interested; looked at my vegetable garden; enquired how the books were doing. It was not at all one-sided, as I was eager to find out all I could about their lives. It was wonderful. She and Jamie will be an asset to our family circle, I know. They add another valuable dimension. We are so fortunate that they both wished to live here. Welcome home!

Mending Fences | sexinyourseventies.com

My older sister and I had never seen eye to eye. We were opposites: she was Mummy’s girl, I was Daddy’s girl; she only ate the white of the egg, I only ate the yolk; she was pretty and fair, I was darkhaired and thought myself plain; she was good at helping our mother in the farmhouse, I much preferred riding my rusty old trike over the rutted ground of the dairy farm at Buccan. She was dominant, I was submissive. I didn’t mind at all that I received all of her clothing hand-me-downs. I rather looked forward to the time when I would get certain pieces of her meagre attire, even though she was slender and I was a bit podgy. But I squeezed into this dress or that, and all was well. Had the ‘boot been on the other foot’, would my sister have coped? I doubt it. So we got through life living with our sibling rivalry. She was closely involved with our mother, and was known as ‘a lovely girl.’ This was true. As a teenager, she was blonde, slim and attractive, quietly spoken with a good smile of large, even teeth. She had a tiny gap between the two front incisors, and this was meant to imply that she would know wealth! Our mother would take us to the dances at the Brisbane City Hall. It was wartime, 1943, when I was fifteen, Joan was seventeen. I think Mum rather enjoyed her dutiful task, and she certainly had her fair share of dances with the many servicemen who were in town at that time. Joan was in demand and I did quite well. Sometimes, however, a young blade would telephone me, asking me to the movies (‘the pictures’). I was not allowed to go, but I could invite him home to Sunday ‘tea.’ Invariably, when I did this, the young man’s attention would divert to my sister, he would subsequently ask her out, and she being older was allowed to accept. All would be lost, and I would be upset. My father explained to me that the time would come when I was myself a popular young lady, and my boyfriends would remain loyal to me. Of course, this happened. The first boyfriend to kiss me seriously was killed in action in New Guinea. I was devastated, and thought of him for several years, only him. As a result, I sort of lost my teenage years. My sister married, had two little children, while I left home to pursue a nursing career. She lived within walking distance of my parents’ home in Greenslopes, and I knew the closeness of the bonds that existed therein. After a year working in England, I married and had four children. I was in the fold again, but there was rivalry there. I remember my sister telephoning me to say she had just won a share in first prize in The Golden Casket, a lottery worth $12,000, which was a goodly sum in those days. I was happy for her, but I recall thinking, ‘Trust you! You’ve always been lucky!’ My parents and my sister belonged to the same bowling club, there was much of mutual interest to them, and I suppose I felt ‘on the outer.’ Perhaps I was too sensitive. But when, quite a few years later, I found myself on my own with three young daughters to support, the situation worsened. It was mostly my fault that we were in this awful, lonely position. My mother had died, and my Dad had remarried. My sister had remarried also, after a disastrous marriage. But theirs had been ‘honourable’ separations. Mine was not. And I was disowned. Christmases came and went, and my little unit spent these times quietly in the little house that I had almost enough money to acquire. One year, we knew there had been a big luncheon party at my sister’s new husband’s home, to which we had pointedly not been invited. It was I, the mother, the guilty party, the ‘baddie’ who had been abandoned by her supposedly loving ‘other man’, who felt the keenness of the ostracism. To my credit, because my self-esteem was at an all-time low, I took courage, for the sake of my children, and visited my sister’s house after Christmas dinner. It was mid-afternoon, the house was open, and a good time had been had by all. The remnants of the feast were still on the dining table, the drink bottles obvious, the house quiet. We peeked into the adjoining rooms and saw the participants asleep on various beds. Out to the world. What to do? We crept back to the porch where I wrote a little note, wishing them all a happy Christmas, and why not come over to our place this evening? With very mixed feelings, we left the note under a tumbler, and high-tailed it for home. I did not expect any result, but was pleasantly surprised that evening, when my sister and Dad arrived, somewhat sheepishly, as we were having our meal on the tiny patio. They joined us in our simple repast, and it was as if we had never been estranged. The unspoken thought seemed to pervade the very air, ‘Let bygones be bygones.’ We ‘made up.’ I have been forever grateful that this event took place when it did, before the tragedy that was to come. New Year’s Day saw me quite ill with a viral infection that I had caught from Susan who had been infected with it in the Children’s Ward where she was presently a student nurse. I was feeling ghastly when my aunt phoned, asking how I was. I told her how wretched I felt. She said my sister was not well either, not a virus, something altogether different, she said. She was trying to break it to me gently. How different? ‘Well, Doreen,’ she continued, ‘You will get better. Joan will not…’ It had been so sudden. A pain in the back meant an X-Ray, which took in the lower portion of both lungs. This latter area was full of inoperable cancer, which had caused no symptoms whatsoever. We were all in shock. The next eight months were tough, especially for my sister, who was in disbelief largely. She took her two grown children for a sea cruise, endured many surgical procedures, and gradually weakened. It was then I was able to come to the fore, bringing my nursing knowledge and sisterly love with me. It was a genuine affectionate relationship that had been healed naturally, not as a result of the dire consequences of my sister’s malady. I was a frequent visitor, taking cooked meals… ‘It’s Meals on Wheels!’…and cheerfulness to the stricken household. We became good friends, talking about our lives, our differences, what could have been. For me, it was wonderful. I believe it was also very good for my sister. It enabled us to say ‘good-bye’ sincerely, without the guilt that would have been present had we reconciled only after the diagnosis. It means I can reflect on our relationship without rancour, and with affection. There is a huge lesson in this tale: don’t leave it too late to mend your fences!

The Morning Show | sexinyourseventies.com

I was recently on The Morning Show, Channel 7. It was all about my new book ‘Gardening in Your Nineties, the sequel to Sex in Your Seventies.’ In this latest book of mine, a nonagenarian (moi), who wrote the successful book ‘Sex in Your Seventies’, tells of her efforts at gardening after a life of some experience at tilling the soil. She deals with everyday problems and reveals her own solutions. But as she works away, her mind wanders to her past long life. She talks of her childhood on the dairy farm on the Logan, and remembers her many subsequent adventures… being a district midwife in England, hitch-hiking on The Continent in 1954, opening her own Art Gallery, going to university at 71…which will keep her readers enthralled as they travel this interesting journey with her. Through it all, there is woven a love story that may, or may not be resolved. To obtain a copy of this lovely book go to www.sexinyourseventies.com

THE MOUSE | sexinyourseventies.com

THE MOUSE We were sitting in our two seater settee watching her favourite program on television. It was a good thing that I shared this with her. It gave us togetherness. We could discuss it later. My teenage daughter was studying TV production at university and liked to dissect a given program. I loved to contribute, and she seemed to value my opinion. But we also simply enjoyed this program which was a tad trite, but it took our minds off other troubling issues. Then the mouse appeared! A little brown mouse, it scampered across the carpet and remained still, crouching there, as if afraid of attracting our attention. ‘I’ll have to set a trap,’ I said, thinking another job, but Katy’s reaction was different. ‘You can’t kill him Mum,’ she exclaimed, ’It’s his home too!’ But I was thinking of the flour and sugar and God knows what in the pantry from which I suspected the mouse had emerged. Any spoiled food must be thrown out. However I said nothing, but late that night, I set a trap and placed it outside the pantry. Sure enough, there was a carcass for me to dispose of the next morning. Early, in case she discovered my guilty secret. Two nights later, it happened again. A little brown mouse scuttled across the carpet and disappeared under the door to the cupboard under the stairs. ‘Ooh,’ she cried rather gleefully, ‘It’s our friend again. Isn’t he cute, Mum? I’m so glad you didn’t kill him!’ I remained silent, but I thought another one! The flour is ruined for sure, and we can ill afford that right now. I had not long ago left the sanctity of the marital home and struck out on my own; an epic undertaking whichever way you looked at it. So another trap was set that night when the house was still. And another brown mouse was dispatched the next day. When the third mouse appeared, it almost made me laugh, but that was impossible after all my deception. ‘It’s our little friend again,’ she would say when the fourth, fifth and sixth mouse made an entrance into our living room. I was aghast. I was almost out of cheese, but I had heard that mice like bread also, which I tried with no luck. So cheese it was again, and three more brown mice visited us. Nine in all went down the toilet. My lips were sealed, but I was glad when the visits ceased. For some time, Katy wondered where the mouse was. ‘Perhaps a cat got him,’ was all I could think of. Ultimately, the pantry was cleaned out, the mouse hole discovered and sealed up, and new provisions obtained. And truth once more reigned between my daughter and me.

THE MOVE TO DUNELLAN | sexinyourseventies.com

A SHORT-SIGHTED VIEW? 4366 words It was a big move. They sold the farm and moved to the Dunellan Estate on the south side of Brisbane. My father had been born and bred on the Logan, as had his father before him. His grandparents had emigrated from Schleswig Holstein in 1884, and had settled on those acres on the Logan River at Buccan, only to lose most of their possessions in the disastrous flood of 1887. By dint of hard work and perseverance, however, they survived and passed on the dairy farm to their daughter Bertha and her husband, who in turn worked the farm until their son Harry, my father, made it his own. Times were hard during those Depression years, and Harry and his wife eked out a very precarious living. The cream cheque at the end of the month was often as little as one dollar, one dollar for a month’s work! He was once so disgusted with the amount, that he threw the cheque at his wife, saying, ‘You can have it! I’d rather work for nothing!’ Being a spirited city girl, she purchased her Box Brownie camera with the ten shillings, without which they would not have had any of the precious photos that have been bequeathed and cherished. My father was young and fit, and eager to provide for his family. He would ‘shoe’ horses for a dollar in the three sided shed he called ‘The Smithy.’ It contained a huge anvil, a forge and some bellows. He had no farrier’s gloves, just held with his hands the horse’s hoof between his legs as he filed, cut and nailed. He would heat the horseshoe in the forge and hammer it to fit that particular horse’s hoof. Sometimes, understandably, the animal would flinch, the hoof tearing my father’s palms as it recoiled in fear. My mother would beg her young husband to forego the ‘shoeing’, as she bathed his shredded hands and bandaged them. ‘I don’t care if we starve,’ she would cry, ‘I can’t bear to see you hurt yourself like this.’ It was all in vain. Times were tough, and the ‘shoeing’ brought him in as much as a month’s milking. Before I started school, I would follow my father around the farm. I was Daddy’s girl. I was even allowed to watch him when he worked in the Smithy. Sometimes he made stout chains to use when a cow became bogged in the creek in times of drought. At other times he would knock out the innards of old batteries that had been given to him, and melt down the lead frames that remained. In a large cauldron on the blazing forge, the lead would become a shining liquid that he would pour carefully into the old, empty jam tins that I would have ready on the bench. These he would gingerly lift with strong tongs and place in an old galvanised tub that contained a few inches of precious water. There they would sizzle for a moment, and would gradually cool and set. When he had time, he would cut the tin away, leaving an ingot of lead. On their annual trip to Brisbane, forty kilometres away, he would take his stash of lead and sell it for a few shillings, maybe a dollar or two. One year, my parents visited the Brisbane Exhibition. We were excited at this prospect. We only tasted ice cream when we went to Beenleigh to visit the doctor, or perhaps when a dance was held at Logan Village, when the exquisite delicacy was despatched by rail from Peters’ factory in Brisbane. It would arrive at the station in a stout canvas bag holding the dry ice around the deep metal container of vanilla ice cream, to be later dispensed by my grandmother at the dance that night. She would sell it to patrons at threepence a cone or we could buy a penny ice cream served in a glass with one of her spoons. But at the Exhibition, it was different. There we discovered strawberry ice creams with a real strawberry on top! Milk shakes with our ham sandwiches, and potato chips from the stall that had a great big picture of a Tasmanian potato on the parapet. We were invariably sick from all of this unaccustomed, rich food, and my mother’s cool hand on my brow felt comforting as I ‘brought up’ in a side alley. But then we felt better and trudged on to admire the wedding cakes, the young animals and side show alley. We were allowed one ride on the merry-go-round, but we only looked at the front of the various sideshows, marvelling at the World’s Fattest Man and the Daredevil Motorbike Riders in their Globe of Death! For a special treat because I did not beg for fairy floss as my sister Joan had done, I was given a try at a game of darts. The prizes for special scores were various plaster ornaments. To my great delight, I won a large kookaburra sitting on a stump, painted in natural colours, all for sixpence! We had to lug the bird around all afternoon until we were ensconced in our ringside seats, watching the ring events before the big thrill for my parents, the fireworks! They had told us about this marvellous delight, but when the first bangers went off and the fiery explosions in the sky rained down, I was terrified, screaming like a banshee! They tried putting my coat over my head to silence me, as well as to prevent me from viewing the glorious sights, but in vain. I yelled so much, so loudly, that we were forced to pack up and leave. I suppose it was inevitable that we leave the farm. My parents wanted to give us the education that had eluded them. There was a clearing-out sale where everything was sold, and we lived with my grandparents in Logan Village for some time. It was a happy period for me. Joan and I could simply climb through the sliprails to go to school, instead of the five kilometre walk, barefoot, from Buccan. Grandad had two cows on this lush acre or two, a horse called Dick, some hens and a duck pond. Dick was a piebald that would pull the buggy that my grandparents used in those days. The Brisbane house in Bunya Street was very old, probably late nineteenth century, its wide chamfer boards painted a dull brown. Only about a foot off the ground, it was not in a very good state of repair. But there was a gas stove and a water tap. There must have been locks on the front and back doors, because my mother was a nervous type. They had brought their old iron bedstead, but we girls slept on the floor for some time. There was a table and chairs, but little else. It was like camping in a house. The best part was the corner store, where Mr and Mrs Allen sold everything, even sandshoes! The old house stood to one side of a thirty-two perch block, which allowed my father to commence building a new house on the vacant sixteen perches, number thirteen. Soon after the move, my mother took Joan and me to the Dunellan State School, three blocks up the road. I was in grade three. The headmaster was brusque but kind enough. He called a big girl from the quadrangle below, and instructed her to look after me. She took me on parade where we saluted the flag by numbers, one, two, three! And then we marched into school. My class was quite big, forty or more students. It was all so strange to me. Coming from a small one-teacher school, I knew the geography of the seventh grade, the history taught in fifth grade, the poems from every School Reader, but to my shame, I did not know the first thing about mental arithmetic! We had never learnt it at Logan Village! Horror! So I was made to sit in the front desk with the dunces. It took me some time, several weeks perhaps, but I finally caught on to this mental arithmetic. It ultimately came easily to me to add up the long list of given numbers and quickly put my hands on my head! Answers down! Mine was correct! Did you look on someone else’s slate? No, Sir! And of course those around me had the wrong answer anyway. And it was there that my upwardly mobile journey really began. I continued to do well at school, and finally topped the class. My father was struggling financially. It was 1937, the Depression was easing a little, and we had moved into the new house, my mother’s pride and joy. Bunya Street between Dunellan and Juliette Streets was no longer a dirt track, but was a sealed road. To have this was a rare privilege, and perhaps the proximity of the corner store was considered by Council in this undertaking. The clothes prop man was a reality, the milk was delivered fresh (from his dairy down the road) by the milkman driving his horse and cart, the ice-man called if you were lucky enough to have an ice chest, and the suburb had been renamed Greenslopes. The old brown house was eventually demolished, and my father stretched his resources enough to build, with help from a carpenter friend, another house on that block, to be sold. He hoped for a cash sale, but that was not to be. A family purchased it on time payment. They were as poor as we were, had no deposit, but they could repay three dollars a week as the husband was an employed butcher. This enabled us to live, but the overdraft remained. My father had no trade, and work was scarce. My aunt owned the Haigslea Hotel, a small establishment on the Toowoomba side of Ipswich. She employed my father to build a hall next to the pub. The pay was poor, but it included his ‘keep.’ My mother kept reading the ‘Carpenters Wanted’ advertisements in the Courier Mail, and finally phoned a builder who lived at the Thompson Estate, the next suburb. Cyril Hornick. She made an appointment with him for one evening, and we trudged down Juliette Street, over the creek, past Bill Hall’s dairy farm and up the hill to Cyril’s home. We took it in turns to carry my baby sister. Cyril was expecting my father as well, but after our mother had explained why he was at Haigslea, that he knew how to build houses despite not having a ‘ticket,’ that he was strong and willing and a good fellow, and that he desperately needed the work, Cyril remarked that if her husband had half the gumption that his wife had, he would willingly employ him as a labourer, and would even assist him in achieving carpenter’s status. He was to present himself on Monday, 7am. While Dad was making his successful journey in the building trade, my mother ran an efficient household. She kept poultry in the small backyard, and it was my hateful job to take surplus eggs in a deep brown suitcase, with a handle in the middle of the lid, to sell to the shopkeepers in the shopping centre on the tramline, across Dunellan Street from the school. I was short sighted even then and suffered from glare, but nobody knew, because I told no-one. I would squint my way up the street, avoiding other children, lugging my heavy load, feeling wretched but dutiful. When I received the payment from the designated shops, I was allowed to spend one penny, which invariably went on a milk-orange ice block that I would suck and savour all the way home, the empty port not now so ungainly and burdensome. Occasionally I was given threepence to spend on lunch on a school day. It was difficult deciding what to buy. The proprietors in the row of shops adjacent to the school all vied for our custom. There were home made penny iceblocks at the first store, the Black and White, which was tiled with appropriate colours on the outside. Further on there was a milk bar, where a milkshake cost twopence, a rare extravagance for me. It consisted of milk and flavouring only, no ice cream and malt like the fourpenny malted milk; but it was delicious and worth the occasional sacrifice. Then there was the fish shop, where potato scallops were two a penny, good value, or a tasty rissole for the same price. A cake shop followed. The new owners once asked me for advice on how to price and sell their wares. They wanted to do well, naturally. I advised a whole buttered scone for a penny, or a small cupcake or bun. They made a concoction out of stale cakes, mixed with sultanas and flavouring, a thick slice that they iced pink and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands and called ‘Chester Cake.’ They cut the huge slice into large portions which were very good value, especially if you were hungry! On the other side of the road, stood the ‘paper shop’ and a butcher. If you were allowed, you could cross the tramline and buy for a penny, at the newsagents, a small meat pie, steaming hot, made in a muffin tin. A regular sized pie cost fourpence, but was made in a factory. The little ones were made by the owner’s wife as a sideline, and I loved them! If I had spent only a penny on a scone that I often bought because, after all, it was my recommendation, then I could have a pie and a milk orange icypole at the ‘paper shop.’ If I had any money left on my way back to the school, there was always the ice-cream man who parked his horse and cart on the corner, near the school gate. He made the ice-cream himself. It was a little like gelato, made from custard I think, and he spooned and shaped it with a spatula on top of a large cone, for a penny. Sometimes the horse made a nature call, and the smell of horse urine or dung did not mix too well with the vanilla. I discovered singing, or did singing discover me? Mr Jim Williamson had us for singing once a week, from grade four onwards. We sang in parts. Wonderful songs that I still croon to my toddler grandchildren. There was ‘The Nightingale’: Nightingale I hear you singing, In the woods your voice sweetly ringing, Come once again and tell me true, Can I stay and li-ive wi-ith you-oo-oo, Can I stay and live with you? Or the beautiful ‘To a Miniature’: Dressed in your gown of blue brocade, A rose upon each dainty shoe-oe, Lady in loveliness arrayed I want to dance with you. Perhaps my favourite was ‘In The Springtime’: There was a lover and his lass With a hey and a ho! And a hey nonny-no Who all the green cornfields did pass In the Spri-ingtime, in the Spri-ing time! In the Spri-ingtime, in the Spri-ingtime, The only pretty, pretty ring time, With a hey-a-ding-a-ding, And a hey-a ring-a-ring… Sweet lovers lo-o-ove the Spring! It was all so thrilling and I sang with gusto. I could keep a part, either soprano or contralto, but our teacher needed a good ‘alto’ to help the others keep their part, because the sopranos invariable sang the melody, which was easier. He would bend his head and place his ear near our faces to hear if we were in tune or not, give you a thump if you were off-key, or just move on if all was well. He noticed me, or rather my voice. For our breaking-up concert, two other girls and I sang, in parts, on the verandah, ‘Three Little Maids from School,’ from ‘The Mikado.’ I was Yum Yum. Probably due to Mr Williamson’s promotion, our school was asked by radio station 4BK to record a programme to be aired sometime. We were all excited, and I was to sing, as a solo, ‘To a Miniature’. Another girl was to sing the wartime song ‘We’ll Remember.’ The choir filled in the rest of the half-hour. But on the day, the other soloist had a sore throat and could not sing. I was asked if I could do both items, and of course I could. It made me sad, but I loved ‘We’ll Remember,’ and had often wished that it were my song: We’ll remember the meadows, And the fields of waving corn. We’ll remember the music , And the land where we were born. We’ll remember the laughter , And the sunshine after rain, And we’ll grin, grin, grin Till we win, win, win… And they come back again! For years, at odd times, Radio 4BK played the Greenslopes School Choir’s programme. Once, when I arrived home from school, my mother was in tears. What was the matter? She had been listening to 4BK when she was stunned to hear we were ‘on’, including, of course, her young daughter’s rendition of the two songs, in the clear, pure voice that my mother knew so well. She was overcome. In 1941, there was held in the Brisbane City Hall, a State Schools’ Patriotic Concert. All of the metropolitan schools trained their choirs to sing selected songs, and the resulting performance was magnificent, so everyone said. I was chosen to sing a duet with another girl. My mother’s best friend, whom we called Aunty Greta (Doyle) came down from Ipswich to make me a special white dress for the occasion. It was of crêpe de Chine, a flimsy fabric which she cleverly pintucked. On the bodice, there were pintucks that formed small squares, and in the centre of these, we embroidered a pale pink daisy with two pale green leaves. It was very pretty. On the big night, as my partner and I came out to sing, a voice behind my parent’s seat said, ‘Gee! That kid’s not nervous!’ But I think I was. The grounds at our school were stony, with hardly any grass. The vigaro pitch and basketball court were asphalted, which meant a badly grazed knee if you fell over. There was a cricket pitch for the boys, and a very basic swimming pool with no filters or accoutrement of any kind, but there was no tennis court. A group of keen tennis players, including my sister Joan, would hit the ball around in a quiet area in the school grounds. A neighbour of one of the boys lent them his tennis court at times, and they advanced in proficiency to such an extent that they entered the inter-school tennis fixture competition. My mother offered to be their chaperone when they visited other schools to compete. They practised on the bitumen road outside our home in Bunya Street, while someone looked out for approaching cars, and would warn them to clear the road. Having no home court, they were not able to host a game. No matter, for they went on to win the fixtures, each of the four players receiving a silver cup, the only sporting trophy to ever grace our home. I knew my eyesight was not good. I could not read the writing on the blackboard from the back seat. I had complained when in grade three, and my mother had taken me to an optometrist who prescribed glasses that were most unsuitable. My eyelashes brushed against the glass, and he said to cut the lashes off! I could not see through the glasses at all, and I felt it was thought that I had whinged unnecessarily, because I would not wear them. I pretended that I could see well. But at school, it was a different matter. I was a bright student, but was hampered by this lack. So I wrote a note, replicating my mother’s handwriting as best I could, saying, ‘Could Doreen please sit down the front, as she cannot see the board properly.’ My teacher in Grade Four gave me a funny look, I thought, but he allowed me to sit in the front seat, where I remained until I was in Grade Seven, when the School Nurse made a visit. Horror of horrors! Individually, our eyesight was tested, and I could not even read the top letter on the chart! The nurse was shocked, and wrote a nasty letter to my parents ordering them to take me to a specialist immediately! An appointment was made with Dr Lockhardt Gibson on Wickham Terrace, and my father stayed home from work the next day to take me to see this nice man, who prescribed the necessary glasses to correct my deficiency. When I received the spectacles several days later, my world changed. Dad and I walked from Wickham Terrace down to Queen Street, and it certainly seemed a lot clearer to me on the way. It was when we wheeled into the main shopping area, with the coloured neon lights, that my fairyland vanished. In my myopic state, the lights blazed, diffused into magical beams, colour meeting colour, dots appearing to be radiating stars, lines a dissemination of hue that had no meaning. That day, with my new glasses on, the tinsel had gone, and the lines spelled out ‘PENNEY’S’ or ‘ALLAN and STARK’. No magic, just signs. But of course, the blackboard at school became a joy to read, and I was able to take my proper place in the back seat. When I completed the Scholarship Exam at the end of Grade Seven, I won a scholarship to The Brisbane Girls’ Grammar School and looked forward to achieving my dream of becoming a journalist. I took the necessary subjects of English, French and Latin (three languages being mandatory to obtain a Bachelor of Arts degree, which a journalism career required) plus the usual Arithmetic, Algebra and Geometry, Art, Geography and History. Because I had a spare period I also took Physiology. Our idyllic days did not last long. The war in Europe had been raging since 1939, but it was over there. When the Japanese entered the fray, it was different. Two Japanese planes over Gympie resulted in an air raid alert Brisbane-wide. We were all huddled in our slit trenches at schools on two occasions. My father and a neighbour dug an air raid shelter between the two properties, stocked it with provisions and roofed it with corrugated iron, which was in turn covered with soil at ground level. Steps led down to this little dungeon that was made as comfortable as possible with a couple of chairs and a rough bench. Both families of five could squeeze into it if necessary. With the threat of an air raid hovering over our city, it was deemed too dangerous for children to go to school, and all the schools were closed. In no time, I was despatched to boarding school, St Catharine’s in Warwick. By this time, my Dad was an established house builder, and could afford the fees. I was happy there, but homesickness saw me home after six months, to recommence my studies at the Grammar School. At the end of 1943, however, the position was dire, Brisbane was a garrison city, and the war was very close. After passing well in the Junior Examination and obtaining an extension scholarship, I was nevertheless taken out of school and became part of the ‘war effort.’ My father had been called up to be a member of The Civil Construction Corps, building army camps at Logan Village and Wallangarra. It seemed that money was again an issue in our family, and I was cheerfully manpowered into working at the United States Army Post Office in the old South Brisbane Library. We worked hard and long, shift work, 7am to 3 pm, or 3pm to 11pm. When I was on the late shift, I would find my mother, with my father’s overcoat over her pyjamas, waiting for me at the tram stop at Shipley’s store on Logan Road. A young woman in the Northern suburbs had been murdered while walking home one night, and all of Brisbane was paralysed with fear. I was fifteen and shortsighted. My tortoiseshell glasses looked ugly, and I would not wear them. A dear girlfriend would tell me when my tram, Greenslopes or Holland Park approached. But what to do at work? I memorised the fifty or so pigeon-holes into which I sorted the letters home. From a slow beginning, I ultimately sorted 2000 letters an hour, a good average. Our letters were weighed in bundles, and a tally kept. A year or so later, an Army officer came to me as I stood sorting, and asked me to go with him. I was bewildered, as he drove to a Quonset hut in Victoria Park, number 4. Inside was an enormous pile of books and papers, and a lot of shelves. ‘We want you to sort this lot out,’ he said. It took me weeks, but eventually, I had neat rows of Field Manuals and Technical Manuals stacked on dozens of rows of shelving. I became a librarian at age sixteen, despatching to army personnel, manuals that had been requisitioned from all over the South West Pacific Area. It was there that my thirst for knowledge flourished, my feeling for books developed. After the war, my vision of journalism had gone. A BA degree was out of reach. Adult education had not been heard of. After some sorties up a few dry gullies, I went nursing and had a successful and rewarding career in that field. It was only when I was 71 years of age that I plucked up enough courage to further my education. By assessment of my life’s efforts, I won entry into an Arts degree course at Griffith University, majoring in Creative Writing and Indigenous Studies. This was followed by a BA Honours degree. My hunger for learning continues, along with my passion for educating the young.

Much Ado…another woman’s tale | sexinyourseventies.com

MUCH ADO… The dishwasher was almost loaded, most of the cutlery was already in their respective baskets, and I was serving lunch. I had lovingly prepared a salmon salad…because I knew he liked plenty of greens, and fish, which was so beneficial to good health. Good for me too, of course. Earlier I had picked the ripe strawberries from the vegetable garden that I tended each day; washed, hulled, sliced them; mixed them with the one available passionfruit, a diced apple and two home-grown bananas; some lime juice to blend the flavours. I was pleased with my efforts as we sat in the sun on my north-facing verandah. We had both eaten every scrap of food on our dinner plates. ‘Yum, yum,’ I said as I polished off the last vestige of the lettuce from my garden. He had brought forward his pretty glass bowl laden with fruit salad. He picked up the oatmeal spoon that I had set at his place. ‘I do wish you would give me a decent spoon,’ he complained, holding the offending article aloft, looking at me as you would a trusted servant, willing me with his eyes to get up and fetch him a dessert spoon, the oval type, not round as an oatmeal spoon is. ‘The others are all in the dishwasher,’ I explained, sitting still. ‘What about the one that I used for my porridge this morning?’ ‘You took it out to the shed, remember? You only brought it with you now. When I called you for lunch!’ ‘I put it in the sink…’ I didn’t budge, although his eyes were upon me, ordering me to get up and wash the spoon. It was unreasonable. I could have given him a dessert spoon from the few odd, cheap pieces that he had brought with him seven years ago, but I knew full well his reaction when I did that. ‘Crap!’ he would say, ‘I’m not using this crap!’ I would protest that it was his very own cutlery that I kept in a separate compartment, but he would ignore my words and flounce to the kitchen to search for a better utensil, one to his liking, one of mine. What a storm in a teacup! Who does he think he is? He who has nothing. I, the one who owns the place, who took him in when he had no home. Where have I gone wrong? It is my nature that is the problem. I do not demand. I am not a squeaky wheel, and I get little oil as a result. Certainly not from dominant people. I like myself as I am, but I realise that a certain type hones in on me, knowing I am malleable, eager to please, willing to pull my weight, that I can be manipulated, bossed around. But only to a degree… We all have our breaking point; and our memories.

MY BREAKFAST COMPANION | sexinyourseventies.com

If I am engrossed in reading something (perhaps The Bulletin?) he will let me know he is there. Oh yes! He is impatient for me to notice him, for he wants to be fed. Not later, but now. This instant. I know he is not popular with bird lovers. They say he frightens off the small native birds like Blue Wrens (which I love) and others. But this Mickey seems harmless to me, with his jaunty, cheerful manner. So I say, ‘Oh! It’s you again…’ as I put down my cup, survey my breakfast tray and decide on the morsel that I shall give him today…hot buttered toast that I know he loves. I break off a tiny portion and place it on the table a few inches from my tray. He flutters from the verandah balustrade to the back of a nearby chair and warily checks the field, looking this way and that, listening, checking again before he darts to the table, picks up the crumb of toast and flies off. He is back in no time, giving a bit of a chirrup from his position on the chair, and this time confidently alights near the fragments of toast, near me, and one after the other, devours each piece, throwing his head back heartily as he swallows his meal. This bird knows I am his friend.

MY COMFORTABLE OLD CARDIGAN | sexinyourseventies.com

THE COMFORTABLE OLD CARDIGAN Yes, a comfortable old cardigan, like my old red one, the one a resident of the nursing home (where I used to work) made for me. I have worn it sporadically for twenty years or more. When it was only a few years old, I took a trip around the world with a friend, and was packing the clothes for the journey. My daughter Katy was helping as a consultant, as daughters do. What should I take? ‘Mum,’ she said wisely, ‘I think you should take that red cardigan. You wear it all the time here. I think it would be a useful thing to take.’ So I took it and yes, I wore it a lot. And I still do, although now it is relegated to home wear, when I am gardening and when I am in my work gear. I love it. And I feel that it still becomes me. The red ‘cardy’ springs to mind when I think of him, the one I have recently been forced to send away. It was quite necessary, but only some of my acquaintances understand the situation. He does comprehend, I know, although he resents it. We always said that this is what he must do if he became stressed financially and my property was at risk. But putting it into action is another matter. I really thought that he would move into a small apartment somewhere near, and we could continue our relationship, move in the same circles, see the same friends and continue in the same vein as before. Except that in the event of a court case, which was pending, my property would be safe. But that is not what happened. Even before he left my premises, he was hunting for another woman where he could find a home. It was so hurtful to me because of my attachment to him. I still feel those bonds, six months since the separation. I have a funny feeling that he does also. He owed me such a lot. Not only money, but other measures that I said could be repaid with work in the garden. He is good at that, and always does everything so well. Okay, he said. Now the strange thing is that instead of arguing with me over every little decision that was to be made, as he was wont to do, he now agrees and does what I want. It inevitably turns out well and we are both pleased. His first lady has given him the ‘heave-ho’, and he was devastated, but the present prospect is more ‘down to earth’ he says, and the relationship is progressing well. He tells me about it when he comes here to prune the shrubs, or whatever. The dagger turns in my heart a little more as he recounts his ‘doings’ to me over a meal or a ‘cuppa’. I listen, because I want to know what is going on. Simple. He says this one is ‘coming along well.’ I realise it would be easier on me if I did not see him at all, but it is like an addiction. Seeing him makes me feel better, but leaves me feeling worse when he leaves. I wish I knew what was in his mind. He behaves as if I matter to him, but his words belie this. Except for today. When he was handing me the last cheque that will repay his financial debt to me, his eyes filled with genuine tears. ‘I just want to thank you for all you have done for me,’ he spluttered, looking most woebegone. ‘Don’t start, please,’ I begged, ‘or I will be crying too… but yes, I have done a lot for you…’ ‘I’ve done a bit for you too…’ ‘Yes, you have indeed.’ ‘And I’m going to trim the shrubs today. That box alder needs pruning to keep it small…’ “Don’t bother,’ I replied, ‘I am going to do away with it. It is going to get too big for me to cope with…I don’t want it there. Could you just cut it down while it is still small enough?’ ‘That’s right. Anything that I had something to do with is no good. Get rid of it!’ ‘That’s not so. My neighbour gave me the seedling, and I was silly enough to plant it here. It is all my fault. I value what you have created here.’ He looked relieved. ‘What a pity I am going away today…’ ‘No worries. I have brought my lunch.’ ‘I won’t have the pleasure of seeing you at work. You know how I enjoyed that…’ I always had said that it was the best ‘turn on’ for me! So I left as he tackled the box alder, having given him a list of jobs that I wanted done. ‘You’ll need to transplant those zucchini,’ he warned as I went, ‘they are not getting enough sun.’ ‘Shall do,’ I answered, as I drove down the drive. The next day, on my return, I was anxious to see the results of his labours. I had mentioned that I only needed one mulberry tree, the other was superfluous, now that I was alone. He objected, no, he would prune it right back. All right then. But lo! Not only was the alder gone, the mulberry was too! All evidence of them had gone, no rubbish left for me to clean up. It looked great. And must have taken him a long time, several hours. On checking, the compost hole had been dug, the carpet cut in strips for me to line the hanging baskets, the boards put under the house, the ladder placed behind the shed as I requested, the tools neatly stacked in the carport…just as per list. What a team we made! How comfortable I felt in his presence…as I am sure he did in mine. I felt warm and cosy. Just like when I donned my old red cardigan.

MY E-MAIL ADDRESS | sexinyourseventies.com

Sometimes the computer seems to go crazy. Somewhere on my website, I had my e-mail address. My old address at Hotmail is now inaccessible, and I have a new one of: doreenwendtweir@gmail.com Please feel free to contact me on this address if you are experiencing any difficulty in placing an order or similar. Even I could not find this on my website. Doreen

My Father’s Passport | sexinyourseventies.com

MY FATHER’S PASSPORT I was busy when the phone call came. ‘Yes?’ I enquired, ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Is that you Doreen? We met years ago. You probably would not remember. But I was wondering if you could help us…do you know who Harry Wendt is?’ ‘He was my father!’ I exclaimed. ‘Well, we have his passport here in the bookshop!’ ‘How did it come to be there?’ I naturally enquired. The woman did not know. She was tidying up the desk and it was in a small pile. I collected it that afternoon, the photo in the passport revealing my father aged fifty-nine and looking young for his years, which he always did. A tear almost fell. My Dad had died in 1989, aged 88, as a result of a car accident. He was always very dear to me. We were great mates, on the same wavelength. The passport was dated 7th September 1960. Dad and Mum went on a Women’s Weekly World Tour in 1960, for three months. It was a big adventure for them indeed. They lived on the Strathmore for the entire trip around the world. My mother died in 1965, having just turned 63, a very sad time for the family. But how did the passport come to be in the second-hand bookshop across the road? Surely it arrived in the pages of some book? But it had a hard cover and would have been noticed? My father had left a lot of books when he died, and it was my job to deal with them. They were mostly historical novels, biographies and the like. A few years after my dad’s death, I was living at Carindale. I had been asked to take in as a boarder a young Canadian man who taught, voluntarily, origami to underprivileged children as part of an exchange system. I knew he had little resources. Each day he would go to the city, just for something to do, and loved to talk to the waitresses in a Greek café in Elizabeth Street. He was not an attractive man and these girls made much of him, making him feel valued. There was a bookstore across the road where you could sell unwanted books. I struck a deal with Brian, as he was named. I had culled out the best (as I thought) of my Dad’s books, and had several boxes of unwanted volumes. If he would tote a bundle each day to the store and sell them for whatever he could get, he could have half the amount for himself. He eagerly grasped the agreement, and we were in business. Eventually, the boxes were empty and we both had a small sum for our trouble. Brian was very happy about this arrangement. Had the passport been sold along with one of these books? I doubt it really, as it would have fallen out surely, or we would have noticed it. I moved to Tamborine Mountain in 1993, taking all my possessions with me. I have never given any books to the bookstore across the road. I gave all my university notes to the local library, and several of Dad’s books to my daughter who lives locally. But the rest I have treasured, keeping them in my bookcase. If only the passport could talk? What would it tell us?

My fear of trusting someone with the keys to my home began when I was eleven | sexinyourseventies.com

My fear of trusting someone else with the keys to my home began when I was eleven. My parents had overcome to some extent the poverty associated with moving from the dairy farm at Buccan to the suburb of Greenslopes in Brisbane. It had been a brave move in 1937. After two years, we were now settled in the new house in Bunya Street and Dad had a regular job as a carpenter. Grandma and Grandad had followed us into town, and lived three streets away. They decided to have an adventure, a holiday in Sydney! We would go in two cars, my parents plus thirteen year old Joan, my young sister Daphne who was three, and I in Dad’s Vauxhall and my grandparents following in their Bedford utility. We must have stayed at hotels or guesthouses on the way. I remember arriving in Sydney at night and being directed to a guesthouse at Kirribilli. The next day, they found a flat at Woolhara on the first floor of a fibro block of units. They found a public telephone and called Dad’s cousin, son of Grandma’s deceased sister Pauline Eschenagen. This family had owned and operated Brisbane’s most fashionable restaurant in the early part of the century. The siblings, two boys and a girl, considered themselves quite upper-class, having been educated at the Boys Grammar School and its female equivalent. They were most hospitable to us. After all, they had enjoyed many a holiday, as youngsters, on Grandma’s farm with their country cousins. Charlie lived in Alfred Street, North Sydney, in a charming Federation style house with his wife and family of three. He had a restaurant in inner Sydney. He was a good caterer, and we children were thrilled when he turned out some home-made ice cream in a special ice filled churn. His brother Oscar was very well-to-do. A successful dentist, I believe, he was now an art collector with a vivacious younger wife called Cherie. Their sister, Hedwig, with her husband, owned a prominent hotel on the Gold Coast. Then it happened. Daphne contracted pneumonia. The little three-year old was desperately ill, and the flat at Woolhara became a very solemn place. A doctor was called, who stated that if she recovered, she could be blind, or deaf, or both. However, we could try a very new drug, a sulpha drug, which might help. It worked! She became well again, but the holiday was ruined despite Charlie and Oscar being so kind and solicitous. We returned home, grateful that our baby was well, but my parents were worn out with worry and strain. The added expense of her medical treatment could not have helped. But it was good to be home, and Joan and I were glad to have our shared double bed back. I loved looking through my mother’s dresses in her silky-oak wardrobe, and in no time was going through them in my usual manner, feeling the texture of the cloth, loving the various styles. But something was wrong! There were only a few frocks hanging there. Where was my favourite, the magenta crêpe, the newest one…with the velvet trim at the neckline…the one Mum had worn when we had our family photo taken? ‘Did you take your new dress to Sydney?’ I enquired of my busy mother. ‘No, Dear. Why?’ she replied from the kitchen. ‘I can’t find it…’ ‘It must be there somewhere…’ I gave up the search, thinking my mother must have stored it in another place. My parents were occupied with unpacking, with Daphne, with the evening meal. I was first to bed, and turned back the bedclothes. Shock! What was that? A curly, dark hair, and the sheets were rumpled in an unaccustomed way! And they were soiled! Little cream stains mottled the whiteness here and there! I did not understand at all. ‘Mum!!!’… and my parents were aghast. Mum’s face was stony as she began to comprehend the situation. This must have been Alec’s doing! Mum’s oldest brother Alec, a bachelor of dubious mentality, had paid an unannounced visit just prior to our leaving, intending to stay for a week or two. They did not like to ask him to leave as he was always impecunious and would not be able to afford to pay for lodgings. He had come a long way, from Murgon, so after some discussion, Dad said that Alec could stay on after we had gone to Sydney. He was given a key and assurances were asked for that he would keep the place secure and safe. Yes, yes, of course he would. They had no need to worry. After all, he had a home of his own. And he would leave the key in a designated spot, which was where they found it on our return. Mum and Dad looked for a long time at the stained sheets. What is it? We wanted to know. Where did the curly hair come from? Who made the marks? But Mum was busy changing the linen with Dad’s help, her face grim, the tears close. Then she looked in her wardrobe. Oh dear! It had been ransacked! At least five of her good dresses were missing! They looked at each other. Family relations were very important to both, but Dad was firm. ‘We’ll have to notify the police…’ And so it turned out that Uncle Alec had been approached in the city by a prostitute who had no home at the time. She probably offered him free services in return for a bed for several nights. It was all too much for him. And he trusted her. He was inexperienced with women. Alec was summoned from Murgon and was questioned by the police. He was very naïve in so many ways. Especially regards to street women…any type of female. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ my father thundered. ‘Didn’t you see the sheets? What a bloody fool you are!’ Mum was so upset. ‘Did she make the bed for you? Did she eat in my kitchen?’ He had no knowledge of her taking the dresses. The police thought they knew the ‘lady’ and soon found her, along with Mum’s clothes, which were ultimately returned…and burned. Yes, the lovely magenta gown went up in flames. Uncle Alec did not show his face at our place for twenty years or so. My mother and I were walking along Queen Street one day when she stopped, stiffening as she looked at a small, unkempt chap shuffling along the pavement. She took my arm. ‘It’s Alec…’ she said, ‘what am I to do?’ After some minutes, her Christian upbringing got the better of her. He looked so forlorn, uncared for. She went to him, put her hand on his arm. ‘Hello, Alec,’ she said, and so began their relationship again. The rift was never healed, but it was not hurting either.

My Personal Dream | sexinyourseventies.com

The voice was very pleasant as she introduced herself. ‘I have known about you, Doreen’ she began, ‘I lived near the Youngs in Wodonga.’ ‘Oh, my bridesmaid, Anne Young…’ ‘Yes. We were great friends. But we have now moved to Shepparton. It was through Anne and Peter’s recommendation that my parents, Pat and Albert Blashki came to stay with you in Brisbane at Expo 88…’ ‘Really! Your parents and I have exchanged Christmas greetings ever since.’ ‘I know. I have read your news from year to year, and Mum mentioned that you had written an interesting book.’ ‘Sex in Your Seventies.’ ‘Yes, and now I have seen your website. Doreen, I would like to buy a copy please.’ ‘Lovely! When you have read it, you can forward it to your Mum and Dad.’ ‘That’s exactly what I intend doing…’ ‘How old are they now?’ ‘Dad is ninety, and Mum is eighty-five. Still going strong.’ ‘They are a marvellous couple. They have visited me here, when I had the gallery. I think some of their children have received gifts from my gallery, made by me.’ ‘I just wish you lived in Victoria, Doreen. You would be in such demand as a guest speaker.’ My dream is to have a caravan or a campervan, travel round doing my guest speaking, seeing friends, seeing the country. I wouldn’t be silly enough to do it on my own, so my quest is to: • Find a good, honourable fellow (GHF) who has a caravan and vehicle to tow it. I would contribute to expenses. • Find a GHF who has a campervan. Ditto. • Find a GHF who has a suitable vehicle, and I could buy the caravan. • Find a GHF who would share expenses, who could change a tyre and all that, if I bought the lot. Not so good, as I have learned that these folk do not have the interest in the rig that I would appreciate. • Find a GHF who would prefer twin beds and no conjugal events unless a loving relationship developed. I would need references.

MY TAP_DANCING DAYS | sexinyourseventies.com

MY TAP-DANCING DAYS The Hollywood Theatre once stood proudly on the corner of Logan and Chatsworth Roads in Greenslopes. Every Saturday morning in 1938 I would take my sixpence (five cents) to attend the tap-dancing class that was held at the back of the stage. I was ten. There was a matinee at the theatre each Saturday, with two films and an episode of the serial Flash Gordon, plus a cartoon of Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. The place would be packed with youngsters sitting in the canvas chairs. There was quite a lot of Jaffa-rolling down the sloping, concrete floor, and lots of tittering and giggles. When the films were playing and it was dark, the proprietor, Mr. Marshall Palmer, would patrol the central aisle with his torch, making sure there was no ‘funny business’ going on. And every month or so, during interval, the spotlight would be on the stage. The tap-dance class, complete with red lipstick and very pink rouge, arms linked, would tap our way onto the boards. I remember performing to the music of ‘The Lambeth Walk.’ Resplendent in black satin bloomers with a white satin blouse, we sang as we tap-danced, just as Betty Grable would. Once you get down Lambeth Way, Any evening any day, You’ll find yourself—Doin’ the Lambeth Walk! Oi!

ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER | sexinyourseventies.com

Snippet for Andrew at The Scenic News One thing always leads to another. One of the many interviews that I have done has lead to a learned fellow coming up to do a podcast about ageing, with me, the nonagenarian, doing the talking! He thought it was very good, and a week or so later I received a request from him…would I consider being interviewed by a well-known woman in New York who was putting a book together on aged women achievers. ‘Of course,’ I replied. It led to a marvellous conversation with a charming lady who wanted to know all about the four main books that I had written…especially the last one about ‘Gardening in Your Nineties, the sequel to Sex in Your Seventies.’ She had also interviewed two other women who were in their eighties. One was a playwright who was in the throes of having her play produced in New York; the other was a writer of children’s books who was about to have her fourth book published. So I was in very good company, to say nothing of the interviewer herself who was a remarkable person (and almost out of her seventies.) I mentioned that I would just love to sit and chat to the other three, and all concurred with the idea. My interviewer loved it that I said I endeavoured to remain cheerful even in difficult times, and that my mantra was ‘If you don’t use it you lose it!’

Photos | sexinyourseventies.com

POPPY-SHOW | sexinyourseventies.com

POPPY-SHOW Because of a recent foot operation, I was obliged to climb awkwardly onto the surgeon’s examination couch. I was unable to wear my customary slacks because of the bandaged foot, so wore a flared skirt that gaped as I swung my leg into position, thus exposing a view of my undies. This did not bother me at all, as I knew my underwear was clean and well-fitting. But I later said to my daughter. ‘There must have been a poppy-show!’ ‘What do you mean, a poppy-show?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you know what a poppy-show is?’ I replied, ‘It is an accidental revealing of underclothes that could be embarrassing.’ I went on to explain that when I was a small student at the tiny Logan Village school in the thirties, it was common to hear the boys yelling when a girl would do a somersault or similar, ‘Yah! Yah! I can see a poppy-show! Britches made of calico!’ It was obviously a very old jibe, as even then our bloomers were not made of calico. No frills or lace, just gathered with elastic, made of soft cotton, but no calico. How many others are familiar with this phrase, I wonder? And nowadays, who cares if we see a poppy-show?

POSTSCRIPT TO ‘My father’s passport…’ | sexinyourseventies.com

POSTSCRIPT TO ‘MY FATHER’S PASSPORT.’… Because I now had in my possession my Dad’s passport, it somehow gave me the ability to sell off his lawn bowls, which I had been tenderly glancing at every time I entered my study where I had placed them in a prominent position. I enjoyed being thus reminded of him. But if this can be understood, I was now enabled to part with SOMETHING that had been touched by his capable hands, something that bonded me to him. Yes, if I acted quickly, before I changed my mind, before I lost courage, I could bear to let his lawn bowls go. He would approve I know. He had such good sense, sweet reason that those who know me well tell me I possess myself. So I put an ad in the classifieds of our local free paper, which is printed every two weeks, giving only my phone number, as you do. No replies at all, so I thought I would give it another run. This time, there was a response almost immediately. A friendly voice enquired were they still there? She wanted them for her lovely husband who was thinking of taking up the game. My Dad had been Patron of the Greenslopes Bowls Club, I said. An important position to those in the know. He died as a result of a car accident in 1989! Yes, I had been looking the bowls for a long time… I described the bowls and the sturdy case, which still had his name on it. ‘Harry Wendt’ I said. ‘What!’ she exclaimed, ‘Is that you, Doreen? I had no idea it was you!’ ‘Who is speaking?’ I asked, very curious now. ‘I am the person who found your father’s passport in the bookshop!’ she replied. ‘It’s you Liz,’ said I, stunned, ‘I am quite taken aback, to say the least…’ ‘I am meant to have them,’ she said, ‘when can I collect them?’ So we arranged a time on the morrow, and she duly appeared at my front door. It was a beautiful occasion. I showed her the bowls in the case, together with his measuring tape and his polishing cloths, neatly folded just as he had left them, twenty-one years ago. We both held the bowls and looked at the cloths and tape…and I thought of my father, how he had loved the game. ‘My husband will love them,’ she said. And that is all I needed to know.

THE PRIVET TREE | sexinyourseventies.com

The Privet Tree I must not forget. He cut down the privet tree. For me. For no other reason. Just for me. I must not forget. I knew that the privet in flower was affecting my health. It was notorious for doing so, for causing sore throats, allergies, aches and pains, for a multitude of ailments. And it was growing just a few metres from our verandah, but in our neighbour’s yard, just over the border. He received permission from the neighbour to get rid of the privet, but there was a warning. ‘Watch out for the huge carpet snake that lives in it! Good luck Mate!’ We knew about the snake of course, and had seen it at times. We knew it was not venomous, but it was big, and strong, and looked powerful enough to crush a small animal easily, and had probably done so often enough. I was quite frightened of it, as I was of all snakes. But he was not deterred and sought his chain-saw. It was a long job, and I elected not to watch as I considered those saws to be most dangerous for the user. When he called me to say that it was time for a cuppa’, this being thirsty work, I was surprised to see that he had accomplished so much. All the branches had been cut off and I enquired had he seen the snake? Oh yes, it had been coiled around a large branch and he had removed branch and snake together to another tree-ed area in our neighbour’s yard. I was full of appreciation. Indeed, my cup overfloweth. With love. Happy love, for we were so happy. I told him how I felt. ‘If ever things go wrong between us,’ I said, ‘I shall remember this day, when you cut down the privet for me.’ He looked at me gratefully, I thought, with those brown eyes of his, but being a man of few words, he said nothing much, just that he didn’t want me to be sick. After a number of good years, things did indeed go wrong. His obsessive nature won; over his need of me, and he has sought other climes, another country, where he can pursue his dreams. He asked me to go with him, but this was impossible, certainly impractical. He was chasing rainbows after all. So off he went, alone at first, and the hurt was unimaginable. I felt of no value at all to him. I was devastated as my life with him crumbled. If he really loved me, he could not have left like that; could not have found someone else so quickly, so blatantly. But each time he returned to collect possessions, he took me eagerly in his strong arms and kissed me, hugged me, held me, spent some time with me. I held my composure. Just. I was determined not to let him see how broken I was, and I believe he went off thinking he had my blessing, in a way. In a way that was enough, anyway, for him. I suffered, mostly in silence, trying to come to a conclusion, this being inevitably that he had not ever loved me. Could not ever have loved me truly. Not as I had loved him. The dagger to my heart was twisted this way and that; hurtfully, painfully, and I prayed for some respite. The thought alighted softly, quietly, surely on my shoulder. Remember the privet tree? How could you forget how he manfully tackled an awful task, not without some danger, for you? What about the ruus tree? Positively noxious, and he had cut it down uncomplainingly, despite the rash that ensued, because I wanted it removed. Of course he had loved me once, before his ambitions overwhelmed him. And I must understand man’s frailty. And mend my heart.

REMEMBERING OLD SCHOOL DAYS | sexinyourseventies.com

How I love reading of the old days in the Tamborine Bulletin! Not only does it inform me; it sometimes takes me back to my childhood at Buccan and my school days at Logan Village. This time, I was transported to the one-teacher school where headmaster Mr Alec Brown reigned supreme. I was terrified of him, although I am sure he was just a kindly old chap who did his best for us. There were about twenty of us at this little school, comprised of a lot of the families that have been spoken of in these pages. Perhaps the school at Tamborine Village had not eventuated because there were children from that area who rode their bikes or horses to our school. Among them were the Mantova children whose father ran the garage, and was written about in the Trailblazers. One of them was in my class, maybe Grade 2. I remember him well, because whenever my boisterous Uncle Ted would ask me how I was doing at school, he would end up asking me ‘And Doreen, who’s your boyfriend?’ I would always reply, ‘Cecil Mantova!’ to which I would then be grilled about this likely lad! I hope Cecil has had a good life, and if he is still around, might even recall a shy little dark haired girl called Doreen!

Review from Canberra of GARDENING IN YOUR NINETIES, the sequel to SEX IN YOUR SEVENTIES | sexinyourseventies.com

My book GARDENING IN YOUR NINETIES, the sequel to SEX IN YOUR SEVENTIES A review from Canberra: I love your book, I really do. It’s very informative; you are adventurous and you have filled your life with experiences and enthusiasm. That North Queensland trip makes me smile. The Aussie can find a way when things fall apart. The overseas experiences are a lovely insight into your travels and determination to fill your life with all that it can offer. Also, I love your recipes and tips on gardening. A really terrific read.

Reviews and News | sexinyourseventies.com

Check out Doreen’s recent interview on Brisbane ABC Radio with Madonna King or download the audio file HERE (~5meg mp3) Listen to the interview with Georgia Stynes (Capricornia Afternoons) or download the audio file HERE (~6meg mp3) Read the article in the Logan and Albert News here … Various newspaper and magazine reviews, news snippets: A new book of interviews shows 70-somethings are finding they have plenty of energy for romance and more, even making their grandkids blush. Date: 2007-01-12 Sassy 70-something, Doreen Wendt-Weir, is the new pin-up girl for romance in the twilight years. Not afraid to strut her stuff, Doreen now wants everyone else her age to do the same. At 76, Doreen took charge of her love life and decided to write a book to help others her age put the spark back in theirs. There are 34 chapters, with 35 people all spilling their secrets. “There are a lot of happy people who are doing it the second time around, because they have learned their lessons the first time around,” Doreen said. If you think that being 70 means knitting and crosswords, then think again. Ivy, Hans and Robyn are three other 70-somethings shattering the 70s dating scene stereotype. They are single, on the prowl and with experience on their side, say they know exactly what they want. And nothing is off-limits in conversation – not even Viagra. Like any age group, those aged over 70 are all different: some want the passion, some purely want someone to go to dinner with, to talk to, they are just very lonely and they don’t want to be. Marjorie Marshall, from the Internet-based dating agency, A Perfect Intro, says gone are the days when single and widowed 70-somethings have to spend their lives in front of the television. “I just don’t believe there is any single out there, or certainly not many of them, that are meant to be alone,” Marjorie said. “They need to find their partner and they want to.” They were out there dancing, playing, taking on romance, Marjorie said. Just like they should be. “At the end of the day, the least you can make is friends, and if you have a future perfect match, then magic,” she said. Doreen said what she discovered in her survey would be more than enough to make their grandkids blush. The admissions were so saucy, Doreen had to promise them all anonymity. But that has not stopped her using their stories to titillate and excite others, exposing their love lives to anyone who wants some inspiration. Don’t be fooled by the cheeky demeanour of the love-seeking 70s: they do have their serious side and Doreen says there’s no secret to a relationship that survives the distance. “If you’ve got a problem, I think you should talk about it and above all I think you should respect the other person for being an individual,” she said. “Of course, you must be loving. It’s all about love, the last words in the book are all about love.”

ROUGH DIAMOND< PRECIOUS GEM | sexinyourseventies.com

ROUGH DIAMOND; PRECIOUS GEM. He had arrived with his bob-cat to pull out some star pickets, twenty of them, that were embedded deep in my garden. They had been supporting the standardised oleanders that lined my driveway. The oleanders had been cut off and disposed of for various reasons. The pickets were too difficult to remove by hand. He was afraid of damaging the plants that stood between the machine and the pickets. For someone so young, he displayed great maturity, and his agility and mobility on that awesome machine were almost poetic, like watching an athlete perform. ‘This is a friggin’ big outfit,’ he said pleasantly, and I agreed. However, he took great care and under my supervision and guidance, there was not much upheaval to the plants…the day lilies and Mexican sage, the lavender and agapanthus, to say nothing of the begonias and shasta daisies. I asked him if he could put the star pickets behind my shed, as they were a trifle unwieldy for a geriatric like myself. ‘They’re friggin’ heavy all right,’ he mused. We chatted about the politics of the mountain between pickets; how I wished I had removed the gumtrees at the front of my yard when they were little saplings. Now, as huge ghost gums, it would cost a fortune to have just one of them cut down…if the council would allow it, and the public clamour not too deafening. ‘Yair,’ he agreed, ‘They’re a bunch of friggin’ protesters up here all right. There’d be a friggin’ outcry if you even had them trimmed.’ I summed him up as being a rough diamond. Growing in the cloth binding that had been left on top of one of the pickets was a tiny tree fern and what looked like an orchid of some kind. I asked him could he take great care in removing that one, and could he, or rather could the jaws of the huge bobcat hand it to me instead of dumping it on the ground. ‘No friggin’ worries,’ he replied. In no time, the jaws had grabbed the picket that was under the jacaranda…the stake with the fern in the binding. Out it came and he swung the massive clenched teeth to the drive. Carefully, he loosened the grasp and then he leapt from the cabin. Tenderly, he took the picket daintily from its position, and then handed it (upright, with the greenery on top) to me, with a flourish…almost theatrical. With a beaming smile, he presented it to me. ‘For you, m’dear,’ quoth he. I accepted the delicacy with as much elegance as was possible, as one would a bouquet. My smile was radiant I am sure. Rough diamond? Precious gem, rather.

SARCOMA! cont’d Part Two | sexinyourseventies.com

A week or so later, Caroline came with me to see Doctor Porceddu, the oncologist. Very easy to talk to, he explained the situation. It was not so rosy a picture this time. These sarcomas tend to recur, and without further treatment, there was a sixty per cent chance of that happening. With radiation, it was reduced to forty per cent, or lower. Forty years ago, your arm would have been amputated by now, mid forearm…and he sliced my arm with his hand to demonstrate. ‘We have found, however, that with radiation, the odds are the same as amputation. So that is what I recommend. You can think about it. You need not do anything. But those are the odds.’ ‘I don’t believe I have a choice,’ I replied, and Caroline nodded in agreement. ‘It seems I have no alternative but to have radiation.’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘So what is the next step?’ I asked, trying not to show shock at this conversation. Sandro Porceddu told us that the radiation unit at princess Alexandra Hospital was very well organised. That he would arrange a C T scan of my thorax, liver and axilla to make sure there had been no metathesis. I would be contacted by the hospital regarding an appointment for a Planning Day, when a mould would be made of my arm and a time each day (for six weeks) would be made, weekdays only. The forms duly arrived for me to fill out, and I prepared myself mentally for the next journey. I knew I must keep busy, and not lie in bed awake for too long. Morbid thoughts creep into the mind and depression is not far away if one leaves time to think. There are aspects of my present life that are deeply depressing to me, and these I must deal with as best as I can. I must try to remain cheerful. My recently departed partner, Norman, phoned to say he would be up on Sunday to collect a few of his things…oh dear, I steeled myself for the pangs I knew this visit would bring. I wanted his belongings gone, however, so I must weather this storm. He looked awful, thin and uncared for. His haircut did not become him as my cuts had done. He mumbled a lot, muttering softly at times, and I was forced to ask him to speak up. I know I lifted him intellectually when he was with me, but he had regressed. Sad for me. I made him welcome, offered him the mulberry tree to pick the luscious, laden fruit. So we picked and ate heartily together, just like old times. I put on afternoon tea, which he tucked into. He looked at the tealeaves remaining in his cup, but put it down silently. I knew what was in his mind, and asked would he like me to read the tealeaves? This is what I did for eight years, so why not again? He agreed with my deductions. I listened dutifully as he told me how marvellous his new lady was, how supportive and helpful. Just as I had been, I mused. ‘She sounds wonderful,’ I said, ‘I hope you will be very happy.’ Not meaning a word, but my dignity depended on my saying this…as the knife twisted… I phoned Raymond asking him to help my ‘ex’ load the furniture. He complied, and the job was done. Meanwhile, I potted the spinach plants he had brought up, and planted some of the capsicum seedlings. I thanked him. I sat at the outside table and watched as he tied the load on, so efficiently. He asked could he have the lettuce I had promised him, and we went to the garden and cut it, a lovely specimen indeed. ‘I’ll get going then, ‘ he said, looking at me. We had spent three hours or more together. He suddenly advanced on me, kissed me right on the lips, not fleetingly, put his arms round me and hugged me…held me. I responded of course. My body has always loved the feel of him. And then he was gone. No thankyous, or enquiries about my well-being. The deflation set in. Perhaps that is all he is capable of doing and saying. As he boarded his utility, I said, ‘You poor thing…!’ ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, shocked. ‘You poor thing…for missing out on me…’ He looked at me quizzically, not comprehending I am sure, and left. I have been to our U3A musical movies twice, and enjoyed both immensely. There is always good company in such a small crowd of thirty or so, and this is good for me. I have continued with my transplanting cucumbers and pumpkins, and have been raiding the mulberry tree. I eat about a hundred at a time! We have held two French classes on my verandah, and I have attended my Sustainable Gardeners outing. I have had a ‘500’card night, which is bitter sweet in a way, because I miss him at this event. But I needs must press on, I know. Keep busy. I have the two demons to control. I phoned PA Hospital to enquire if the CT scan would disturb the adenoma in my duodenum. Quite a worry for me. All of the staff were wonderful to me. Ultimately a doctor Dwyer phoned me to explain that the radiation should not affect the adenoma, and in any case, by far the most urgent and important issue was the sarcoma in my forearm. The dose of radiation was quite large, but still not large enough to cause damage to the duodenum. They must prevent it spreading elsewhere to prevent further surgery. ‘ I have been told this means amputation…’ I ventured, hoping, I think, that he would somehow say that this was not necessarily so. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ he said, ‘and I am looking forward to meeting you.’ How nice. They are all charming. But it felt like I was going to pieces. All that reference to ‘amputation’ was so scary…terrifying really. The reality sort of sank in. * Katy insisted on coming with me to my Planning Day. Armed with my parking permit, we arrived to find it did not work. Jack was on board and must be taken to school where he is in the Prep Grade. Katy dropped me off to see to Jack. As I spoke to the girls at Radiology Reception, Scott approached. ‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘I didn’t,’ he replied, ‘this is just a coincidence.’ He escorted me to the Nurses’ Station, telling me he had arranged for Ben to do the CT scan, and that the latter was to look out for me. However, it turned out that I must have a blood test to see that my kidneys were functioning satisfactorily, so I proceeded down the rabbit warren of hallways and floors to find Pathology. I was lost, but as usual, a kind chap took me all the way to this department. My form was marked URGENT, so in no time it was done and I returned to Radiology. And waited. I had told the nurse about our parking problem, and she phoned Oncology and obtained a new number to punch in. She phoned Katy with this information. Katy arrived having parked successfully. All was well. I was summoned to a cubicle where a canula was inserted in a vein in my arm, by a student nurse. It was the second she had done…and it showed. Poor girl, she did her best. Ben appeared and we went to have the scan. He asked the usual questions about allergies, but he mentioned ‘iodine’ this time. Yes, I had tried to take a few drops of iodine when I had first been diagnosed with the duodenal adenoma, but found that my heart raced so much that I was forced to cease the treatment. He took this seriously, and called in a doctor. They both listened to my story, and explained that the only way to have a thorough scan of the liver was by CT scan. If my heart reacted badly, I was in the right place, but it was my decision. I opted for the CT, but must admit, when Ben cautioned me that the dye was going in, to feeling apprehensive. All was okay, but he said I must wait a little longer to ensure there was no reaction. I had arrived at the hospital at 8.15 am. It was eleven by the time we left Radiology. My appointment in Oncology was at 11.15 am, and I was famished! Katy nutted out a food bar, where I ordered a toasted sandwich and bottle of water. We raced to Oncology where we waited on comfortable chairs and I ate my morning tea. A pleasant (are they anything else?) young woman sat with us and explained the procedure that would soon take place. She was a technician and would assist. I would receive some tattoos on the site instead of the mould. It was better. They would do another scan of my arm, but no dye this time. It was all practically painless. All of this took place. I lay still for ages as three of them measured, considered and marked as Sandro Porceddu had indicated when he made a brief visit to this room. Then we saw a nurse who gave some advice on what it would be like during the radiation. I should apply some aqueous cream. Towards the end, it could blister, and need dressings. She advised against going on my proposed trip to the Jenolan Caves in December, which left two days after treatment would cease. But I should feel all right, perhaps tired, and hopefully could drive myself home and back at weekends. There was a waiting list, and the earliest I could start was the 26th October…the very day I was guest speaker at the Rochedale Probus Club! They arranged for an appointment at 2pm, allowing me time to speak in the morning, and get to the hospital on time. Wow! I now had two weeks or so to see to my home and garden. Even if I did come home at weekends, I should get the weeding done, and seedlings transplanted. It would mean I would see ‘Oliver’ and ‘The King and I’ at the Zamia with my U3A group. My oncologist said he would phone with the results of the scan in a couple of days, to allay any fears I might have…fears indeed. No-one called. I had been given an appointment card with the time of my first treatment inked in. On the back was a number, which changed weekly, that I was to punch in to the machine at the gate to the Oncology car park. Okay. Katy said she would accompany me to the first session, and show me which lane to get in when I was driving there subsequently. But first I had to be guest speaker at the Rochedale Probus Club on that very day! The engagement had been booked for months…at 10 am. My radiation treatment had been deferred until 3 pm, which was fine, giving me time to make my speech, have a cup of tea, do a book signing, and drive to Katy’s home at Moorooka where we would have lunch before going to the hospital. I did it…entertained about sixty people with my talk about my life and how I came to write the book Sex in Your Seventies. They love it. I talk about my early days at Logan Village, the ignorance, the move to Brisbane where my farmer father became first a carpenter, then a builder, then a church builder with two fine edifices to his credit, St Philips at Thompson Estate (Annerley) and St at Nundah. The latter was Archbishop Halse’s favourite, so he told my father. It was Brisbane’s only modern Gothic church. I talk about my upwardly mobile journey that began when I first caught on to ‘mental arithmetic’ at Greenslopes State School. A scholarship to the Brisbane Girls’ Grammar School, World War II intervening, becoming a librarian for the US Army at sixteen, nursing after the war, marriage and four children. Finding myself alone at 65, I established an art gallery at North Tamborine, but was jolted into going to Griffith University at age 71, obtaining my BA and BA Hons. It was during this period that I was encouraged to write the book. So here was this writer, this mini-celebrity who had done a book-signing that morning full of smiles and confidence, and who now was nothing more than another nervous patient commencing the treatment that she hoped would ensure her more good years of life. We reported at the desk, putting my card in the basket. We took our seats. Some time later, my name was called and I accompanied a young woman to the treatment room. As instructed, I took off my shoes and lay on the treatment couch, a bit like an operating table, but wider it seemed. An extra leaf had been inserted to make it even wider. My feet were positioned in two fixtures that held them securely. I was to lie still, let the three attendants do the moving of my body, especially my left arm, which was marked, moved, nudged, twisted, adjusted, propped and manoeuvred. It was marked with a marker to indicate the six tattoos that showed where the radiation was to be directed. A ‘bolus’ was attached to my arm in this area. Measurements were taken and recorded. The table was lifted to about the technician’s eye level, the hovering machine was rotated to where they wanted it. Lights were switched on and off. I was told not to move ANYTHING! They were leaving the room…and twenty bells rang. I counted them, twice each day. There was a bit of a whirr for quite a few seconds, a ding and the three returned. The machine was rotated so that it could ‘zap’ the underside of my arm, and they left the room again…to twenty bells. Again the procedure…and they were back. Cautioning me not to move yet, they lowered the bench to normal height and removed the bolus. They offered me a rope to haul myself up, but I declined, as I could easily get myself off the bench. I put my shoes on and one of the girls walked me out to the waiting area. Phew! Katy and I found our way out (via the orange arrows) to Reception, where I picked up my card with tomorrow’s appointment time marked. The machine is a linear particle accelerator, commonly referred to as LINAC. It is a ‘type of particle accelerator that greatly increases the velocity of charged subatomic particles or ions by subjecting the charged particles to a series of oscillating electric potentials along a linear beamline; this method of particle acceleration was invented by Leo Szilárd, but patented in 1928 by Rolf Widerøe’ (Wikipedia). The Linacs at Princess Alexandra Hospital have individual names. I was assigned to ‘Marie Curie.’ When MC was being serviced, I was treated at ‘Wilhelm Röntgen.’ Or once at ‘J.J.Thomson.’ Mme Curie had an achingly interesting life. Because of her family’s poor circumstances, the reciprocated love she had for Kazimierz Zorawski was doomed, and she suffered rejection by his family, which he was unable to oppose. Through hard effort, she ultimately earned a degree in mathematics at the Sorbonne, where she met Pierre Curie, who became her husband. Together, on 26 December 1898, the Curies announced the existence of ‘radium.’ They had two daughters, Irene and Eve. Marie was the first woman to be awarded a Nobel Prize. Eight years later, in 1911, she received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, “in recognition of her services to the advancement of chemistry by the discovery of the elements radium and polonium, by the isolation of radium and the study of the nature and compounds of this remarkable element.” Marie Curie died in 1934 from aplastic anaemia contracted from her long-term exposure to radiation, the damaging effects of which were not then known. No safety measures had been taken in the shed where she carried out her work. Interestingly, Zorawski went on to become a mathematics professor at Warsaw Polytechnic, and, ‘as an old man, would sit and contemplate the statue of Marie Curie which had been erected in 1935 before the Radium Institute that she had founded in 1932.’ (Wikipedia). So it went. On specific days, I saw a physiotherapist who gave me special exercises to do in order to prevent losing any movement in my hand. She provided an elastic sleeve for my arm, covering the affected area, which would prevent swelling. It felt good, and would also serve to protect the area from the sun. It was rather alarming to learn that this area must NEVER be touched by the sun again! Then I saw the occupational therapist who agreed with what the physiotherapist had suggested. She was most concerned with how I was coping…had I hit the brick wall yet? No, I was fine, and they both thought I was doing very well, especially for my age. I saw Doctor Pat Dwyer, a nice young man who has triplet daughters (I was told by the nursing staff). He was Dr Porceddu’s offsider. Just checking. And I asked about the results of that CT scan. Oh yes, there was this area about one centimetre across in the upper right lung that will have to be watched, probably another scan in January. It could be an old infection, maybe not. Oh dear! What next? And so it goes on. I can request an early or late appointment if possible. I try to get an early treatment on Friday, which allows me to drive home to the mountain at a reasonable hour. If I can have a late morning treatment on the Monday, I can sleep three nights in my own bed! When I am home at the weekends, there is a mountain of work to be done…especially in the garden. The weather has been hot and dry, and I think of my poor vegetable garden during the week when I am in Brisbane. As soon as I arrive home, I have the hose on. Having three big tanks, there is no water meter, and I can usually hose all I want. So far, I have not lost too much of my crop, and I always take with me on Mondays a huge pile of spinach and lettuce, very welcome indeed. As the weeks passed, I did indeed hit a brick wall. The hot weather didn’t help. I stayed one week with Katy, the next with Caroline. They always have lunch at Colin’s place on Mondays, so of course I joined in…at the home that my father had built for me, now owned by my ex-husband. He is still grieving his girlfriend of twenty or more years, who died last year. The whole place is a shrine to her. Her bright smile is everywhere. He would appreciate some company, so I stayed with him one week, and was looked after well. It was restful after the tumult of the little ones at the other two places. It was a good and fruitful time in many ways. My forearm began to look sunburnt, and the staff worried about the surgery scar. I applied the aqueous cream diligently, and followed all instructions regarding exercise. They said I was doing well. They were amazed that I drove myself home the sixty-five kilometres each week-end, and I observed that I was one of the few who came alone to treatment. I quite envied at times the couples where partners accompanied their spouses in such a supportive way. I did find out, however, that a lot of partners were worn out with the travelling, the caring, the visiting. At least I had not caused much disruption to the households where I was staying. I was a good guest. Although I regularly watched ‘Home and Away’while at home, I knew the male heads of the households disliked it intensely. So I missed out on it largely. Katy taped it successfully sometimes, and we watched it later. And Holly and I might watch it while her parents went for a walk! We managed. But I never complained. The Oncology Department was running a colouring-in competition for Christmas. They supplied a box of assorted old pens and pencils in the waiting area. I coloured in two pictures, and took two home for Bridget and Jack. The latter complied, but Bridget gave her completed picture to her mother, with deep affection. I bought tickets in the Christmas hamper assembled from donated items. I made use of the tea-making facilities, and would sometimes take a sandwich to have for my lunch. I made new acquaintances, listened to people’s stories. Joy and Victor seemed to find me. I read more gossipy magazines than I had read for years. Then at an appointment, my oncologist asked me, ‘Have you told anyone what you do? What you guest-speak about? Have you mentioned the book?’ ‘No, I have kept pretty quiet,’ I replied, ‘I haven’t said a word…’ ‘I think I’ll tell the girls,’ he said, meaning the staff, ‘They’ll love it!’ And it appears that he told some about my book, Sex in Your Seventies. It certainly brought a smile to faces…and that makes me happy. On my last visit, we talked about the suspicious area in my lung. Yes, a follow-up CT scan was scheduled for 10th January, thorax, abdomen and pelvis this time. Then a visit to his private rooms on the 13th…a Friday!!! It is unnerving indeed for me to even contemplate this procedure, and the resulting information hat it could provide. The possibilities are frightening in the extreme, and I am trying to keep my anxiety at bay. So I must keep busy. But my energy levels are not high enough to allow me to do too much, so it is a battle. I was given some cream to put on my poor red arm after the last treatment. I saw the physiotherapist and the occupational therapist. The latter said I should be proud of myself for getting through the treatment as well as I had…and so cheerfully. How nice! I drove home in the rain, nearly two hours. I bought fruit on the way, got petrol and tried to control my thoughts. It is still difficult for me coming home to an empty house. I gathered my mail from the shed, heard my phone messages and made a cup of brew. No more until January! And my son was due to arrive back from the UK in two weeks, after five and a half years! It’s on with the show!

SARCOMA Part three | sexinyourseventies.com

SARCOMA! Cont’d. Part three Chris arrived home to our appropriate greeting parties. It was great to have his brand of irreverent humour present again. He entertains us and we look after him in return. Christmas was lively with all the family together most of the time. Then Holly’s fifth birthday was celebrated with a party for friends and family, thirty-five in all. Caroline and Scott employed a clown who was a great success with the children. I had this cloud over me constantly…what was going on in my right lung? I remained cheerful as was my mission, masking the strain that I felt inside. The day of the CT scans arrived, and Katy once more accompanied me to the hospital. Again I was prepared with drink and canula. I was reading as I waited the due time to elapse when I heard a voice saying, ‘Doreen!’ It was Scott trundling a bed-ridden patient to her X-ray. ‘Have you had your scan yet?’ he asked over a few seated heads. I shook my head and he wished me luck as he wheeled the lady on. There was no reaction to the further injection per the canula or to the special, sickening drink. Scans were done of the pelvis, abdomen and thorax. A nurse who came to check on me became interested in my life’s story and I briefly gave it to her! How nice! She gave me a hug as she left, having been summoned by another nurse. Again, the treatment was unarguably satisfactory. I drove home the next morning, trying to rid my mind of thoughts of the result of all this activity. Susan insisted on taking me to see the oncologist on the Friday…the 13th! We waited anxiously, and were first to be called into the surgery. He shook my hand, saying, ‘Jodie showed me your book ‘Sex in Your Seventies’. There was an order form in it…’ ‘Oh, I have one for you too,’ said I, perhaps pre-empting him, as I produced the volume from my handbag, and gave it to him. He thanked me, met Susan and straight away said, ‘Well, there was no change in that spot on your lung. Now that is very good news. We’ll just do a further scan in six months’ time. If that one is unchanged, you are in the clear. And the arm…’ He felt around my elbow, the axilla, the forearm. ‘No lumps?’ he queried. None. ‘Of course, if you notice any lumps, you will report in to your doctor.’ ‘What are the chances of a recurrence?’ I was compelled to ask. ‘Twenty to thirty per cent, which is not too bad.’ ‘No, not too bad at all.’ I did not pursue the matter further, having been told previously what the next step would be should that occur. I did not want to hear it again. I thanked Sandro, the oncologist, for his kindness and attention. Due arrangements were made for me to see the surgeon, who had referred me, I paid my account, and we left. My step was decidedly lighter as we made our way along the hall to the lift, in silence. ‘Well there you are!’ Susan said, ‘You can now get on with your life!’ Humbly I agreed. We called on Caroline who supplied morning tea in her usual proficient manner. We were all somewhat restrained in our relief, not daring to tempt fate or something. We arrived home, Susan kissed me goodbye and I made for my bedroom. I flung myself on my knees in supplication by the bed, repeating, ‘Thank you, thank you…’ And I meant it. There were tears. Then there seemed to be anticlimax. I spent the afternoon quietly, too quietly in my solitude, a bit sad, pensive in the extreme. But I forged ahead with my chores. Then the front door bell pealed. It was Chris, bottle of champagne in hand. ‘G’day Mum,’ he said, ‘I phoned Caroline at lunchtime, heard the good news! I thought it was definitely worth a celebration! Susan and Davey are hot on my heels!’ As I ushered him in, they appeared in the drive. ‘Where are the glasses?’ It was just right. The four of us toasted my good health and many more years of it, as we sat around the round table and raised our glasses. It was absolutely wonderful to be alive!

SARCOMA! …the story | sexinyourseventies.com

SARCOMA! The story It came as quite a shock. As it does. Knowing that there were cancerous cells in the pliable lump on my left forearm took a bit of digesting. Three times in the six months during which the lump had been evident I had asked professional advice as to what it was, and three times the reply concurred with my own opinion, that it was a ganglion, and that in time it would go, as a smaller swelling on my right arm had almost done. I had asked my son-in-law Scott for advice and he replied that a core biopsy would determine what it was. Then it was time to have an ultrasound on my carotid artery, which had been cleaned out some four years previously, just a routine check to see that no plaque was building up. What about the lump? As an afterthought, it was added to the existing referral. I presented at the radiology clinic on the Coast, where a pleasant and helpful sonographer attended me. He missed the bit about the ‘ganglion’ on the referral, but I reminded him. He said he couldn’t do a core biopsy without more notice, but could check with his ultrasound to see if it was indeed a ganglion. A quick look and with sober face informed me that it was not a ganglion, and that a core biopsy should be done. So that was arranged for the following week. A helpful radiologist did the deed the following Tuesday. Not painful, but scary for a ‘sook’ like myself; there was a lot of blood. He said it was full of blood vessels. For a trained nurse like I am, that was not good information. The pathology report some days later gave us the dreaded result. Most unusual, but there were those nasty cells. Yes, removal as soon as possible. And I had booked to go on tour out West for twelve days in two weeks’ time! I could not get an appointment to see the specialist surgeon on the Gold Coast for some time. I did not want to go touring with this hanging over me. At last the surgeon spoke to me, saying he would look at it, but he would only refer me to someone in Brisbane. So I took matters into my own hands. I was feeling desperate with the ‘holiday’ looming. I phoned Greenslopes Private Hospital, which is down the busy road from where my daughter Caroline and Scott lived. I had worked there once as a trained nurse. A very helpful receptionist gave me the names of three surgeons who had consulting rooms at the hospital, and who might be able to help. No luck with the first, not his field, the second was a plastic surgeon who was away. The third was operating, but his remarkable secretary listened attentively to my problem. ‘Doctor will work in with you,’ she said, ‘Come to Brisbane on Tuesday, see him at 10am. He is operating at the Mater hospital that afternoon. If he deems it so, he can do the operation then.’ ‘Can I have it done at Greenslopes? I could not drive to the Mater, but Greenslopes was easy for me, and perhaps easy for one of my daughters who might be able to get time off work to take me.’ ‘You won’t be able to drive afterwards,’ she replied, ‘and his operating list at Greenslopes is on Thursday. Those two days are important if you are leaving a week later.’ Good advice. And this meant it would involve only one trip to Brisbane. No food after 9am. Of course. Then my family swung into action. Raymond, Susan’s consultant husband, was not away travelling on that day, and could drive Susan and me to Brisbane. He knew how to get to the Mater and would take me there. They would fill in the time and would collect me and bring me home that evening, if an operation was decided on. So I saw Dr Andrew Barbour. Yes, he would remove the swelling that day. Yes, it must go. He said I did not look my age! Yes, it would be day surgery. I would be first on the list, which would allow us to return home perhaps before dark. I was booked in to be first on his list at the Mater. We hied there, but with parking and walking to Reception, there was not enough time to do the paperwork necessary before the operation, and mine was deferred to second on the list. I was prepared for surgery, lying on the bed in the pre-op area, with others being trundled into the theatre before me. I was nervous, and was shaking. The nurses put warm blankets on me, but as they explained, the operation that was done ahead of mine because of the paperwork problem was a thyroidectomy, which took several hours. It was after four when I was wheeled into the theatre. Efficiently, the anaesthetist chatted a little, and injected the fluid that rendered me unconscious. Easy! When I woke in Post-Op, I felt fine… and hungry. A tray with sandwiches and a piece of cake was forthcoming and enjoyed immensely. My arm was not hurting. Susan and Raymond eventually were allowed in to see me. What a relief it all was! The lump was gone! Hooray! We arrived home about eight pm. I had missed Home and Away…just whisper that…and Meghan, my granddaughter who works at the Vet Surgery up the road would be here shortly to stay the night. Goody! So I got on with preparing for the trip. The seepage into the waterproof dressing on the wound was considerable. I phoned the surgeon’s reception. Doctor was not there, but seepage was normal, leave it undisturbed. The next day, the dressing burst, like a full blood blister would, so I phoned the local Medical Practice. Yes come down soon, the nurse will look at it. I still felt shaky on my pins, so I telephoned Susan. She was out but Raymond would take me, no worries. However Susan duly arrived, having come home by then, and she waited while the nurse attended to me. She was shocked at the wound, wet and ugly, skin pulled tight. A doctor came to look at it. Yes, dry dressing, and come again tomorrow. I did, this time walking down myself. Another dressing. It was looking red and swollen. What was I taking for the pain? Nothing! I must go on a course of antibiotics. And I was leaving on the Monday for Brisbane. Come on Saturday for another dry dressing. Susan had spoken to Dr Barbour by phone after the operation. He said I could go on tour. What about having the stitches removed? Yes, that would be necessary. ‘She will probably take them out herself,’ Susan ventured, to which he said that would be okay. Then a nurse from the Mater phoned to see how I was. I mentioned the forthcoming coach tour. What about the stitches? I told her of my intention to remove them myself, with perhaps a little help. Shock! Horror! ‘You might need further surgery to that site,’ she warned, ‘and we don’t want any infection there! No, you must go to a hospital or doctor’s surgery and have them taken out in a sterile situation!’ Shortly afterwards, my front door pealed. It was a nice young man whose father was opening up a coffee shop in the building next door to me. Very good. Would I mind if the crowd on opening day next month spilled out onto my lawn? Not at all, happy to be of some help. He asked about my bandaged arm. I wondered if there was a hospital at Bourke, in Western NSW? ‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said, bringing out his I-Phone with all of its gadgets. ‘Yes,’ he soon informed me, and here is the phone number.’ He gave me the exact location, street map et al. On contacting the Bourke District Hospital, where I spoke with a male nurse from Brisbane, I was assured that all would be well. They would do whatever was necessary on the appointed day. Great! I drove to Brisbane on the Monday to stay with Caroline that night, to be picked up by taxi next morning that would transport me to the waiting coach at Moorooka at 7.30. I was watching Home and Away with my granddaughter when the phone rang. The parents were out for a walk so I answered it. ‘Andrew Barbour here. I have just received the results of the path test on that lump we removed. You must have further surgery to remove 1 ½ centimetres from all around the site within a couple of weeks.’ ‘Oh…what about the trip? Should I cancel, even at this late date?’ There was silence for a while. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Go on your holiday. I will need time to think about how I am going to do it, how I am going to fill the hole that it will leave. We’ll have to have a skin graft. I’ll see a plastic surgeon friend. The main thing is the lump has been removed. It’s gone. It was nasty, a malignant sarcoma, high grade. But it is curable.’ Those last words comforted me no end as I toured Western Queensland, South Australia and New South Wales. The news hung over me like a dark cloud, but to my credit, I tried to put the idea aside. I just enjoyed the journey and absorbed the interesting information that was given to us about the countryside and sites of interest such as The DIG Tree, of Burke and Wills fame. On arrival at Bourke, my room-mate accompanied me to the hospital where the long, embedded running stitch was removed. The staff was not pleased with the wound. I should see a doctor tomorrow. They made the appointment for me. We were having a tour of the town, including a visit to the local cemetery where Fred Hollowes is buried. I did not want to miss that. So when the guide, Chuck, arrived the next morning, I took courage and put my case to him. I had an hour before the doctor’s appointment. He was wonderfully responsive. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we’ll go to the cemetery first. Then we’ll get you to the doctor’s.’ Whereupon, he explained to the group that ‘this lovely lady must see a doctor, so we are going to see Fred’s grave first.’ There was no dissent from our driver or the hostess. I found Fred’s gravesite and headstone very moving. Being an atheist, he was buried in the centre of the cemetery, away from the areas confined to the various religions. Marking the spot was a very large black rock, portion of which had been polished. It represented both white and black cultures, very symbolic. Fred had helped so many Indigenous people by treating their cataracts with lens replacement, and he loved them. Which is not to say that he did not love his fellow white men. So the half-polished black rock represented his caring for both cultures. I was delivered to the medical Centre duly, saw a nice little lady doctor from New Zealand, and was prescribed antibiotics for the slightly infected wound. All of this took some time. On phoning the coach, I learned that they were having morning tea in a park. So I made my way, about four large blocks, to the pharmacy, where I had arranged to wait for the coach on the footpath when all business was completed. The pharmacist phoned the hostess when I was ready. I was prepared for a long wait, so I perched on the base of a lamp-post, constantly perusing the slow flow of traffic for a large coach, always mindful that I did not want to hinder the tour in any way. My reverie was interrupted by a loud voice saying, ‘Get your arse off that post and come with me!’ To my surprise it was Chuck, minus his wide-brimmed hat. I hardly recognised him, but he advanced with hand outstretched to haul me up from my low seat. ‘I thought I’d come and fetch you myself,’ he said, ‘the others are having their cuppa and cake. My car was handy.’ I was most appreciative. He was tall and strong, and I took his arm, as my ageing knees become unsteady when they have been fixed in one position for a while. He sensed my insecurity and put his arm around my waist, and I put my arm around him. So we walked down the main street of Bourke to his nice little sedan. On the way to the coach he told me about himself, that his wife was in charge of some Aboriginal Department, showed me his home, and then the timbre of his velvety voice revealed to me that he was of Aboriginal descent, despite his strong views on the shortcomings of the Indigenous town people. I was thrilled to be associated with him. Later one of the women on board remarked that she did not appreciate our guide foisting his opinions on us. I kept my thoughts to myself. My arm was healed satisfactorily when Susan took me to Brisbane to see the surgeon. Katy took time off work and met us at Greenslopes. We all went into his surgery. Andrew found another chair as I explained that this was the ‘entourage’ and that he was lucky there was not yet another daughter! We then received his information. ‘It used to be called an aggressive malignant sarcoma,’ he began, and told us the modern name for my problem. ‘We used to do amputation, but not any more. We must remove a centimetre and a half from around and under the present wound. Tricky, because I am already down to the bone. I’ll try not to have a skin graft, because they tell me the radiation could fry it, and you’ll be left with a big ulcer. No, I’ll try to join the edges together. I won’t fill the hole. You’ll just have a thinner arm. Maybe a centimetre will do, and we’ll have five weeks of radiation. I want to give the skin a few more days to stretch, so we’ll do it on Monday the 22nd. I’m operating at Greenslopes that day, but I want to keep you out of hospital if I can. So we’ll do it Day Surgery. I have every confidence in your Medical Centre up there should we need them. Any questions?’ ‘If you can’t bring the edges together,’ I asked, ‘can you do the skin graft?’ He had previously referred to a plastic surgeon friend. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I’ll take it from your thigh. But I hope I can join them.’ He examined my wrist, and assured us that he could indeed do it. He then went on to give us a few more statistics, about the chances of recurrence being ten to twenty percent even with all the treatment. The words ‘your survival’ seemed to crop up frequently. My head was reeling, but my two girls were strength to me. I was terribly nervous as the day approached. I knew I shouldn’t have been, because the anaesthetic is so good. I will simply wake up and it will all be done and dusted. Yes, I knew that, but I was very, very nervous. It was decided by Susan that I should go home to her place after the operation. She wanted me to go around and inspect my room! I did so, and knew that she was doing her utmost to make me comfortable. Her antique bedstead was high, but I could just manage to get on and off with the support of only one arm. I was cosy indeed with the lace valance and feather doonas, electric blanket and bedside lamp, ensuite facilities and dark curtain. ‘What will you want to eat?’ she queried, ‘ because I don’t cook much.’ ‘Neither do I, now that I live alone,’ I replied. ‘I never complain.’ And I meant it. ‘I’ll bring some All Bran and some home made marmalade plus a loaf of my home made bread. I’ll be right.’ Raymond was leaving for Perth the next morning, so Susan drove me to the hospital and stayed with me during the admission process. Finally I was alone on a trolley in pre-op, shaking. A warm blanket was put over me. Then another. Then I was in the anti-theatre where the anaesthetist spoke with me, discussed whether it would be intubation or not. He put the intravenous needle in place in my right arm, and I was wheeled into theatre. My doctor was there. In a few seconds I was asleep. I woke in the theatre, looking to my right. ‘I am awake, Andrew,’ I said. ‘I am almost finished,’ he replied. I dared not look to my left. Perhaps my head was unable to move. I could tell he was working on my arm, but I could not feel a thing. He cleaned up my arm, did something else, completed the job and came round to my right side. ‘You might have a problem with your little finger and that side of your hand,’ he said. ‘There was a nerve involved.’ ‘Will it be permanent?’ ‘If there is no feeling, it will be permanent.’ ‘Are you going to send away the removed tissue to pathology?’ ‘Yes.’ The anaesthetist said I would need some painkillers. He noted that I was allergic to morphine, and wrote out a prescription for Tramadol. I was wheeled into Recovery, where my blood pressure was monitored, and the saline drip continued. Finally, the nurse brought me a tray of tea and sandwiches, a piece of cake and some sliced fruit. Very nice. I ate the lot. Ultimately I was wheeled into the Day Lounge, put in an armchair, and another tray of food was brought to me. They did not know that I had already received sustenance in Recovery! So I ate that also. After all, I had not eaten since six that morning, some ten hours ago. Katy appeared, then Susan. They said I looked well. My colour felt better than when I had the first operation on my arm. It was the litre of fluid that made the difference, in my opinion. My painkillers arrived and I was ready to go. Susan drove well as usual. We came home via Chamber’s Flat, over an hour’s journey. It was cold and windy on our arrival. Raymond came to the garage to carry my things. And it was done! It was all behind me. My nerves could settle down! We watched the news. I had a snack. Then ‘Home and Away’ while Susan helped Raymond pack. Finally I sank into the luxurious bed after taking a Tramadol. I slept well between efforts to keep my arm on a pillow. It only hurt when the wound brushed against something. After all, it was full of local anaesthetic. I felt so secure and trouble-free while I was At Susan’s home. I was very tired and slept most of the time. The only glitch was the morning after the operation, I was trying not be to be any trouble and assured Susan I could get my own toast and marmalade. I was doing so, standing next to her, when I felt somewhat faint. ‘I must sit down,’ I hastily said and made for the breakfast room adjoining, where I plonked myself on a chair. Then it became worse…I was really fainting, but struggled to hold on to my senses. It was very difficult, almost painful, a great effort to remain conscious. I had my head down between my knees, and Susan called out to Raymond who was downstairs in his office. They took turns at holding a cup of water to my lips and forcing me to drink. I could only swallow one sip at a time. I knew I was going oh…oh…then I wanted to go to the toilet and they each took an arm and fairly dragged me to the toilet where Susan remained with me, I with head down the while. They brought me back to the lounge where I sat in a cosy and comfortable chair that had wings for my head to loll against. It took about twenty minutes, they said, for me to recover sufficiently to eat my toast and drink my green tea. I simply sank back and let the world go by. Because of this episode, Susan was reluctant that I return home on the Wednesday as planned, making two nights at her place. I could see that she needed to think about her forthcoming trip to Cunnamulla on the Saturday. And Meghan, my granddaughter who is twenty-four and sensible and kind, was able to stay with me after work at the Vet Clinic that day. I insisted, and was brought home in the late afternoon after a good lunch. I was well fed and nourished. And happy. I felt so loved. The night was uneventful. We both slept reasonably well, Meghan in the little bed in the bay window. It is ‘her’ bed. I was a bit woozy while having breakfast on the verandah, but it passed and I have felt okay since. My arm is only painful if it is touched. I think I have done well. The two weeks before receiving the path results and getting instructions on how to proceed with the radiation therapy passed slowly. At first I slept well, being thankful that the operation had been done. Then the anxiety crept in. All the ‘what ifs’…silly I know, and not to be entertained. If I woke early, say at five o’clock, it was madness to remain in bed where I would fret about those things in my life that were regrettable, that I should have done differently had I been wiser. So, perforce, I would simply rise early and get some chores done. I have been weeding systematically the vegetable gardens, between showers. Not too much, as I did not want to do any harm to my arm. But it all added up to a tidy garden. The big day was nigh. All dressings had been removed, and I could see that the black thread stitches had been overgrown by flesh, as sixteen days had elapsed since the surgery. Understandable that they had been left in so long to prevent separation of the edges of the tightly drawn skin over the hole that had been left. And understandable that the stitches were hardly visible. After parking at Caroline’s, Susan and I met Katy at the hospital, and we proceeded to the rooms of Andrew Barbour, Surgeon. The entourage accompanied me as usual. Yes, he was pleased with it. Of course it was still paining me…it would for another couple of weeks. Yes, come in here and we’ll take those stitches out. As I sat on the table and tried to present the wound on my arm…a difficult task, I had to flex my arm so he could get at the job…by the way, he said, all the removed tissue was clear. Good news! You could hear the sighs of relief from the adjoining room. Ingrown, aren’t they? And he snipped tissue to retrieve the stitches, over and over…about eighteen times. Now for this big cattle stitch that is holding it all together…another snip of flesh and it was done. Phew! I had only said ‘Ooh, ooh..’ to my credit. After all, two of my daughters were watching! ‘So you’ve got a good chance of complete recovery,’ Andrew said as we resumed our seats with the girls. ‘You’ll see the oncologist about radiation, but I would advise it as I had to go right to the bone, and we don’t want anything to grow in there.’ Right. As we left, he said, ‘She deserves a medal for bravery. That must have hurt today. Top marks!’ ‘A tick then.’ I replied warmly. ‘Yes, a tick indeed.’

SHADES OF HITLER! | sexinyourseventies.com

SHADES OF HITLER! An elderly gentleman, very studious and learned, with three doctorates to his name, was relating a story of his youth… As a young doctor, he was on his way to a Roman Catholic hospital in the Congo region in Africa in what must have been about 1954. Having made the acquaintance of the pleasant nuns at the establishment, he was then shown where he would work, and told what was expected of him. ‘Now you must go and meet Father Martin,’ they said, and took him to the young priest who courteously greeted him. They chatted a while, and during the conversation, the doctor asked the priest…what was his full name? ‘Martin Bormann,’ he replied to the astonishment of his listener. On seeing the look of surprise and wonder, he added, ‘Yes, Martin Bormann, Adolf Hitler’s right hand man, was my father.’ And he proceeded to tell of his relationship with the fuhrer. Adolf Hitler would visit the family at times, always bringing with him the same sort of gift, a set of lead soldiers clad in the uniform of the German Army. Being about seven when World War II began, young Martin would play with these well made toys. His strict father was a disciplinarian, and would expect his son to greet Hitler with the usual raised right arm salute, saying ‘Heil Hitler!’ as he did so. Once, however, when the youth was about twelve, towards the end of the regime, young Martin refused to salute the leader. Dismayed, the father punished his son severely with a robust belting and confinement to his room. Young Martin escaped and ran away, never to return. He headed south, towards Bavaria, being befriended by strangers along the way. At last, he left Germany behind, and eventually was taken in by a group of Catholic nuns. He made his life with them, forsaking his own religion for theirs. Eventually, he became a priest, the one our doctor friend met in the Congo.

SHE’S OURS! | sexinyourseventies.com

SHE’S OURS! I had committed the unpardonable sin. I had left my husband. My three young daughters had elected to go with me. And we were castigated…by all of my relatives, but not by my neighbours and friends. Times were tough economically, but the hardest part for us was the isolation from my family, my father and two sisters. My aunt was in ‘no man’s land’, she was not taking sides. I was quite desolate, despite my feeling that I had done what was best, but I tried not to communicate this to my children. We heard about the family gathering. And we were not invited. Sadly we spent that evening in our little affordable house. I did at least have my piano, and we had music. How could they do it? How could they let me go? I who had stood firm and strong for all those years? My fingers might have played the ivory keys, but my heart and mind pondered this anguish. I could feel my heart breaking. Some days after, my aunt called to see us. She, who had copped a lot of criticism herself in her younger days, made us feel just as valued as before this shocking event. She was my Godmother, and I always felt we were special to each other. We eventually touched on the subject of the get-together. ‘I was appalled,’ she said. ‘I could not believe they would be so critical. Your step-mother led the chase. I think she was gleeful that your Daddy was so angry with you. You and he were always close, and I think she was resentful. ‘But I was shocked that your sisters, and my brother, my beloved brother who had a reputation for being so reasonable…I could not get over that no-one, NO-ONE, put in a good word for you! It was like a feeding frenzy! ‘I listened for a while, but it when your father flung his hateful words into the melee, that I interrupted. ‘But Harry,’ I said, ‘She’s ours! She’s OURS! And that stopped them. Not another word was said. I left them soon after, and I don’t know if any more words of criticism ensued. I doubt it.’ Thankyou, darling Aunt. I learned to make my own way. My father eventually returned to my fold, closer than ever as it turned out. But I have not forgotten those words, those important words…’she’s ours!’

THE SILVER THIMBLE | sexinyourseventies.com

We were leaving the district. Leaving the farm that had been home to four generations of my father’s family. The Great Depression still raged and times were tough for a small dairy farmer of 1937. They would try their luck in the city. A share farmer was arranged, a ‘clearing out’ sale had taken place and a farewell function for the family was to be held at the Logan Village Hall. For a little girl of nine years, it was all somewhat mystifying, but we were used to doing as we were bid and did not question this huge move. We knew there was an old house (really old, 1880) that we would subsequently move into, so we felt safe. My parents seemed to be excited, especially at the ‘going away’ dance where Dad made his usual good speech inviting everyone to visit us in town. But don’t all come at once! There was a presentation as we stood with the MC on the stage of the hall that my father had helped to build five years earlier. The takings of the evening were given to Dad while Mum received a beautifully boxed set of six silver cake forks. The baby was given a silver spoon with her name engraved on the handle, and Joan and I were each given the very thoughtful gift of a silver thimble. The schoolteacher’s wife, Mary Brown, a woman of good taste, was responsible for the selection of these lovely presents. My thimble has accompanied me on my life’s journey, useful and much admired, and always a reminder of the community from which I sprang so humbly all those years ago.

Somebody is being sat on. | sexinyourseventies.com

SOMEBODY IS BEING SAT ON One of the interviewees in my book Sex in Your Seventies logically said, ‘If there are no arguments in a marriage, somebody is being sat on…’ This was truly exemplified in a conversation I had the other day. The other lady was complaining how hurt she was feeling. How sadly she went to bed the previous night. They were going to his daughter’s wedding that afternoon. As usual, he was preoccupied with his ‘business’ affairs (which are always in crisis mode) and was very tardy in getting to the bathroom for his shower and shave. There was little time to spare. But on looking in the mirror, he decided that his hair needed a trim around the ears, and bounded out to the kitchen where she was doing the washing-up, and requested that she drop everything and see to his hair. Sighing inwardly, she agreed and prepared the chair and the implements. Upon cutting his hair, she cleaned up the mess and put away the tools, the while he was saying something, loudly, from the bathroom. He often spoke and expected her to run to where he was, to answer him. This time, it took her a while to go to him. But when she did, a hectic scene met her eyes. The bathroom was flooded! Vanity was in disarray, the two thick mats were sopping wet, and he was straddling the two clean towels that he had taken from their rails and put on the floor. ‘I left the bloody taps on,’ he explained as he shaved, ‘you’ll have to clean it up! I’m late as it is!’ She said nothing, but was aghast. He was so preoccupied with his problems that he was becoming forgetful…and she dare not say anything for fear of annoying him. And she wanted to enjoy the wedding. She brought the squeegee and commenced removing the water from the floor, squeezing it into the toilet. He showered. She mopped. He dressed with her vocal help, and she mopped. As he bounded down the hall to the waiting driver of the wedding car, she mopped. More towels were put on the floor to allow her to use the bathroom as she prepared herself for the wedding. Time was short, but she was well organised and would get to the chapel in time for the bridal party to arrive. The towels on the floor were drenched, but they could wait until they arrived home. It was nine hours before they arrived home. She had written his speech for him and it went over well. They had a happy time with all of his relatives, including his ex-wife with whom she has a very pleasant relationship. Yes, it was all enjoyable, ‘a lovely wedding’ as they say. All thoughts of the wet bathroom fled. But there they were, the saturated towels had to be removed and the still wet floor dried off. ‘You owe me one,’ she quipped to him as she took the towels to the laundry. ‘Big time…’ ‘I don’t owe you a bloody thing!’ he snarled as he undressed, ‘I cleaned up the bulk of it!’ ‘But it caused me a lot of work, and it was not my fault!’ she protested. ‘It was an accident! It wasn’t intentional! Do you think I would leave the taps on, on purpose?’ All right, all right, she thought, I don’t want to argue after having a pleasant evening. I want to sleep soundly. But why could he not have replied, ‘Yes, thank you for cleaning it up for me. You did a good job as always.’ Or similar. He just cannot take any inference that he is less than perfect. And it is so hurtful, and it made her go to sleep sad.

SUNFLOWERS | sexinyourseventies.com

As she does, my daughter Katy brought me a bunch of seven huge sunflowers. She knows I love their brightness. But more than that, they remind me of my early school days. Barefoot, we would walk the five ks from the farm at Buccan to the one-roomed school at Logan Village. About once a year, or not even that, the entire school of some twenty students would have a drawing lesson. Out would come the box of chalk ends. And we cleaned our slates. Mr. Brown would draw a circle on the board, bidding us to do the same. He coloured it in brown. So did we. Then he drew what looked like a petal on the top side of the circle, another on the lower and one more on either side of these, dividing the circle into four even spaces. Then a petal was added to the middle of each space, until all the spaces were filled. All the petals were coloured yellow if you were lucky enough to find some yellow chalk. Mr. Brown then added a green stalk with a couple of leaves. We did likewise. Our teacher did not ever graduate to other flowers; the rare drawing lessons were always the same. I thought my effort was quite beautiful, and left it on my slate to show my parents. I suppose, with a bit of imagination, it did indeed resemble the magnificent sunflowers that presently grace my living room.

THE TALENT QUEST | sexinyourseventies.com

It was 1931 and Logan Village was agog! There was to be a Talent Quest in the only hall that was in the district. The old brown hall had been moved to a private property some years ago. It was small, but adequate for the few good folk who worked their dairy farms and ran their businesses in The Village. The previous entertainment had been a magic lantern show. Mr Press, the organiser, had brought his hand-coloured slides that were magnified onto a bedsheet cum screen that was hung on one wall. It didn’t go over too well. The sheet wobbled and flapped, and the ‘slides of the world’ were obscure and badly presented. There were grumbles regarding waste of money, even though admission was by copper coin, and some halfpennies were known to be retrieved from the box. But a talent quest was different! Local artists were keen to take part. Sopranos, yodellers, whistlers, gum-leaf musicians, mouth organ players, comedians, all sorts of entertainers would take to the small, low stage on the big night. Our family from the dairy farm at Buccan would most certainly attend. Gerald Tesch rode his bicycle from Waterford to our place and we all crammed into the Chevrolet Tourer for the three mile trip to the hall. It was packed. Not everyone had a seat, even though many chairs had been borrowed for the occasion. When all the entrants had completed their acts, Gerald took me by the hand and lead me to the stage and Mr Press. ‘This little girl can sing,’ he said. ‘Oh yes…how old is she?’ ‘She is three.’ They stood me on an Austrian bent chair as my mother tried to remove the old brown coat that I wore over my pretty blue sprigged dress. ‘Now I want you to sing Roamin’ in the Gloamin’’, she said. I was having none of it! I stamped my little foot and insisted on singing an old beer-hall shanty that Dad had taught me…wearing the brown coat of course. The song is ostensibly sung by an old drunk who is trying to hang a picture…if somebody drives the n-a-i-l… It brought the house down. Somebody threw the first coin, and soon there were silver coins everywhere, and I leapt down from the chair to gather what I could…still with my old coat on.

Tamborine Mountain Probus Club Speech | sexinyourseventies.com

Here’s a write-up about a guest speech that I gave in late November at a Probus Club meeting …

THE TARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY | sexinyourseventies.com

THE TARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY They were dressed in period costume as they welcomed us and provided lunch in the old Tara School, now part of the Historical precinct. One of their members, in her old-fashioned garb, became our courier, and we toured the small town of 1000 residents. As she said, it was hard going making an interesting tour of Tara. We ascended the stairs of the old school as some four ladies and two gents welcomed us on the verandah. They were all dressed colonial style. A keyboard of some sort was being played…all the old songs that I, for one, knew and loved. The pianist smiled winsomely, dark hair flying, gnarled fingers cleverly finding the keys. We looked at the handcrafted items for sale before sitting down at two long tables, where we were waited on for our meal. A substantial plate of chicken and ham salad was served individually with bread and butter, followed by fruit salad and custard. Then tea or coffee, with a plate of home-cooked biscuits. We all tucked in, it being six hours or so since our early breakfast. The music continued throughout our repast. Then Owen, 80, a retired police officer, one of our members, got up and sang in accompaniment. I couldn’t wait to join him. It was like the sing-songs of our youth, most enjoyable. We looked over the rest of the museum, the old Cobb and Co coach among the rest of the rusted, worn machinery. They lined up to wish us farewell, country smiles beaming. Only about six coaches visit each year, so we were important to them…as they were to us.

Testimonials | sexinyourseventies.com

‘If this book has not won a literary prize, then it should have!’ Eric, Knoll Road. ‘Doreen, this book should be mandatory reading for the young.’ Joy, Gold Coast. ‘… gives me an understanding of what to expect in my old age.’ Paul, Bundaberg. ‘… enabled me to see myself more clearly.’ Daphne, Brisbane. ‘Wow! Now I know what I should have done!’ Ingrid, Germany. ‘I loved the Preface and Introduction …’ Gail, England.

TONSILLECTOMY | sexinyourseventies.com

TONSILLECTOMY My little grand-daughter had a tonsillectomy last week. She has recovered well. It reminded me of my own experience when I was five. After contracting the dreaded diphtheria when I was three (read about it in my book ‘ Gardening in Your Nineties’), I suffered from frequent bouts of tonsillitis. Our nearest doctor at Beenleigh advised my parents that I should have my enlarged tonsils removed. Times were tough in 1933, and my father asked what the cost would be. ‘Five pounds,’ was the answer. Five pounds! When the average monthly cream cheque was ten shillings in those depression days, this meant ten months work…and what if my sister then had to have her tonsils out? My father did his calculations. ‘Would you consider operating on both of my daughters for the one fee?’ he asked the country doctor who replied, ‘Of course.’ So Joan, who had never had a sore throat, and I were taken to the little cottage hospital and our tonsils were guillotined off. We were ill from the effects of the chloroform, and our throats were bleeding and painful. On the way home in the Chevvie tourer, we sucked chunks of ice knocked from a big block wrapped in a kerosene sack. There was no refrigeration, so the unaccustomed ice would not last long. We recovered, but when I was sixteen it was necessary to have my tonsil remnants removed. Joan never ever had a sore throat!

Tough Journey | sexinyourseventies.com

TOUGH JOURNEY Yet another suffering woman contacted me. (I think a lot of men are unhappy also, but they do not verbalise as women do). Here is her story: ‘It wasn’t supposed to end this way. I knew the journey would be difficult, but I had enough confidence in my ability to handle tough situations that I was sure all would be well; that he would respect me at least. But the going has become such stiff sledding, so hardheaded that I am near vanquished. I am close to giving up. It needn’t be so. I am willing to compromise to a large extent. I am good at it. It is simply too hard for me to cope with his life. Even he can barely cope. He is driven to succeed in a venture that would be too much for several men. I understand how tough it is for him, but it is also difficult for me. I dearly wish I had a fellow who lived a normal life, who was not in such a frenzy of activity all of the time; who had time to live a simple life with me, of give and take, of reciprocation and, God forbid, some affection! I can see the good in him. I feel sorry for him that he has so much to contend with. I can see that he has a responsibility to all those good people who have trusted him, and I admire him for his intense desire to honour that trust. I can see the frustration on his well-sculptured face, the tiredness in his eyes. I know that if I did not look after him well, give him an adequate diet, nurture him in all ways, he could come to grief. He has a strong constitution and is physically fit, but even so, disaster is quite possible with all that stress involved. I rescued him seven years ago, when he and his former lady broke up. He had nowhere to go. He pursued me ardently and I took him in, believing (because it was true) that he was a tradesman in employment, and that we would live a regular life of work, rest and play. But in no time, the other side of him surfaced. There is only work, office work, hunched over a computer all day, cash flows, offer documents, estimates, projections, whatever it takes to get a venture off the ground. I am working harder than ever, and I am not young either. The more he works in his office, the more household chores fall on my shoulders. I feel that I am wearing out. The gloss has certainly worn off. If he would take time to tell me that I am appreciated, I would last a bit longer. But he has no time for platitudes…it is eat and run. If I try to nudge him by offering to weed the garden (his task), he will turn from his computer, look over his spectacles, saying, ‘Make sure you put them all in the compost bin. You could sow a few lettuce seeds while you are at it.’ The years have passed and he is still trying. My life is passing also. When am I going to achieve my dreams? And I have plenty, all attainable, all enjoyable, if only there was somebody to accompany me. Sure, I could walk along the beach alone, but I would not enjoy it. I could drive off on my own, tour wherever I wanted to go, see what I wanted to see. But I know full well that I would be lonely, know that if trouble occurred I would panic. No, I need him to go with me. It’s that or stay at home. He sometimes promises me that he will take time off, just for a day, but it has never eventuated. A crisis has always arisen. ‘Kick him out!’ is the cry from friends and relatives. I wish they could understand how hard it is for me to kick someone when he is ‘down.’ If only he would succeed, perhaps then I could do it. If he does succeed, of course, he says he will take time out to ‘rest and recuperate.’ I presume that includes me. But will it happen in my lifetime? And if I did give him notice to quit my premises, what would happen to all those investors who are relying on him? He would have to pay dearly for the office space he has here, and finance is a big issue. It would be a very trying time for all. And there is no doubt that I would miss his presence. It is nice to have someone around. I just wish that Good Providence would intervene and give me a sign. Bring on success, perhaps…or let the situation deteriorate to such an extent that it is impossible to continue. But those two events are unlikely to occur. I think I am in a hole and I must make the best of it, unless I can change my whole character.’

Treasured Old Sayings | sexinyourseventies.com

TREASUED OLD SAYINGS I found this collection of inspiring sayings that I had looked at often long ago…the paper was yellowed with age. You could see that all had been much loved. What do I care for the wind and rain, Or the clouds in the sullen, grey sky? To me, ‘tis ever a fair, bright world, Beloved, when you are nigh. * Do the good that’s nearest, ’Though it’s dull the whiles; Helping, when you meet them Lame dogs over stiles. * Help me to need no aid from men, That I may help such men who need. * Beautiful hands are always found Where the heaviest duties lie. * Things can never go badly wrong If the heart be true and the love be strong. For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain Will be changed by the love into sunshine again. * The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight; But they, while their companions slept Were toiling upwards in the night. * The moonlight and the roses, The dayspring and the dew… I love them all, but only For love of you…of you. * Do what you can, being what you are; Shine like a glow-worm, if you cannot be a star. * Be swift to love; make haste to be kind. * Oh! This should be a happy world to all who may partake it. The fault’s our own if it is not. This life is what we make it.

TRUE STORY. MUM’S FEET | sexinyourseventies.com

TRUE STORY It was during the Great Depression, when money was in short supply, that the collector would visit weekly to pick up a small amount of cash toward the sum that was owed. The two young boys who were sitting at the top of the outside stairs glimpsed the gas man approaching. They informed their mother who was nearby on the verandah. Knowing she did not possess even the trivial necessary amount, she flung herself onto one of the handy beds, and in a panic-stricken voice beseeched her sons, ‘Quick! Cover me with the rug! And tell the man I am not at home!’ The gas man ascended the stairs and asked for the mother. ‘Mum’s not at home,’ they informed the collector. ‘Oh, where is she?’ he asked. ‘She’s gone to town.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yair. She’s gone to town.’ ‘Well, when she gets home,‘ he said as he glanced around, ‘I want you to tell your mother something…tell her the next time she goes to town, remember to take her feet with her!’

VALE BARRY HUMPHRIES | sexinyourseventies.com

What a great entertainer! He has enabled us to enjoy such mirth! Such talent! He will be missed. Years ago, when my daughter Katy was a teenager, we were having a day at the Brisbane Exhibition. We had not long passed through the gates when I almost bumped into this large, rather gaudily, but oddly dressed chap. ‘Having a day out at the Ekka?’ he asked me through awful, protruding teeth, lisping, spitting and dribbling as he did so. He stopped to chat and I could not fail to notice his unkempt appearance, his untidy hair, his food spattered tie and his wild, tatty look. I knew who it was, but Katy did not. Embarrassed to be seen with such an apparition, she was thinking, ‘Now Mum’s met up with one of her weird former friends…shrink, shrink…!’ And her mother was beaming at this rough looking fellow, even giving him that winsome smile of hers as they chatted away. What’s more, he seemed to be half-drunk! At last he moved on as her mother trilled gleefully, ‘Happy to have met you Sir Les! Thank you Barry!’ And the reply, ‘Who’sh Barry? Hic…’ identified this character to my daughter. Of course it was Sir Les Patterson, also known as Barry Humphries, and remains one of my most cherished memories. And Katy’s.

A visit to Ray Station, in Queensland’s outback | sexinyourseventies.com

It was 112 kilometres from the main road to the homestead; a red, dusty winding road that seemed to go on and on. But we knew we were near when there appeared on our right a metal configuration of graceful brolgas dancing, made by our host (we were told) from recycled machinery parts. Clever indeed! And artistic! What were we to expect next? And then we were there, at the old homestead, built in 1874 by the Duracks. And Mark Tully, descendant, was waiting for us. He waved, smiling, and we felt very welcome. He hopped on the coach and spoke to the twelve of us about our stay for the next three nights, what we would do, what we could expect. We all then proceeded to the shearers’ quarters about a kilometre away where we would be housed and fed. There was a simple building with five twin bedrooms down each side, with a large common room between. At the far end was a single septic toilet. There were ample vinyl covered lounge chairs in the common room as well as a few display cases containing opal jewellery and stylised T-shirts made by Sandra Tully, the lady of the house. So…there was more than one creative person here! We were shown around. About twenty metres from our sleeping area was the ablutions block, a galvanised iron shed containing four showers and a row of four wash basins on one side, with four toilets in all, around the back. There was hot and cold water, and it was unisex throughout. It became quite the usual thing to be cleaning your teeth, real and false, next to a fellow doing the same. Some fun! Our dining room was another simple building, which was most adequate with good quality tables and chairs, the latter being stencilled with names pertaining to station workers’ vocations. At one end was a good kitchen where the cooking was done, and meals served. Our bedrooms contained twin beds with reasonable, clean foam mattresses. A couple of small tables and chairs were all that we needed. I asked mark Tully later if they were just as the shearers used the rooms, and he said, yes, save for the mattresses. They had a separate lot for the tourists. The shearers drank a lot with dire consequences for the mattresses! We had a hearty stew for dinner and met the other talented member of this family that was descended from the Duracks. It was Chloe, their 25 year old daughter. Startlingly attractive, she was tertiary educated and was a musician, composing and singing her own songs on her own CD. Wow! But tonight she cleared away our tables. After dinner, we all gathered around a campfire that Mark had lit earlier. There were bench seats hewn from logs surrounding, and in pride of place was an old pianola! A Ronisch, the same as the one I had played in my youth on the dairy farm at Buccan. But while the pedals and all the attachments were there, it was in a sad state indeed, with wood that was once polished now peeling away and weather worn indeed. How could it be otherwise, at the mercy of the elements night and day? But Mark sat at it and played and sang to us. He had an electronic keyboard that fitted the pianola exactly, and this he removed nightly of course. Clever again! We were joined by Sandra and Chloe who also entertained us with the mother reciting beautifully and daughter singing so well one of her own compositions, accompanying herself stylishly on the guitar. The sky was bright with stars and a gentle breeze was chill, just right for a warm fire and music. Mark warned us of the frogs in the toilets, not to be alarmed when they leapt from under the rim when it was flushed…oh dear! We had two full days of exploring the property. They had a twenty-seater bus, into which we all piled. Just right. No seat belts, and we got a lot of dust. But what a treat it was to be shown the highlights of this working sheep station. We saw anything that was of interest. We visited the shearing shed where the process was explained in detail, and we examined various grades of wool. We were taken to the old boundary rider’s hut where a boundary rider and his family would reside for his tenure of work. Mark said life wasn’t too bad for them, but one could see that they would have to make their own fun, be self-sufficient. Oh yes! And we saw the sad little graveyard nearby of the Hennessy family, where lay a boy born May 1913, died June 1917, who succumbed to diphtheria. The other members of the family had all done very well, according to Mark. We saw the big dam that had never been empty, and the Aboriginal water holes in the rocks. These were about six feet deep, Mark said, and they were quite small in diameter, only about six or so inches, (15cms). These would have been well known to the Indigenous people, and much valued in this dry country. An old opal mine was of much interest indeed, as there was still the odd big piece of opal potch to be found. Of course, we each fossicked avidly, and most of us found something of interest to take home. We visited the family cemetery, which was in danger of being flooded, so big machinery was brought in to make the cemetery into an island during flood time, with the water coursing around it, not through it. Mark took us to Ray Creek, a delightful spot that must have been a long way from the homestead. It seemed to be about fifty ks, but distance is deceptive out there. This is where the family was taken for a day out, to have a swim and picnic. If the time could be afforded. The creek had a waterhole with blue gums around, ample shade and cool ambience. There was an old musterer’s hut there that would still provide shelter if needed. Mark told us that in the old days, the Aborigines liked this spot also, and if the squatters were visiting, each culture would keep to his side, often one taunting the other loudly. Sandra met us with lunch in a designated picnic area. Again, there were log seats and a fireplace. They boiled the billy and also some frankfurters that we ate with bread and butter and tomato sauce. Most welcome. This touring of this huge station made us realise how hard these people work. Just mending the fences is a big job! They do it unaided except for shearing. Looking over the old homestead was full of interest, even to the bed that was brought with the other items from Victoria, on a bullock wagon, it being assembled at night for the owner and his wife. And still lovingly in use. We learned the history of the Duracks and their heirs the Tullys, such formidable Irish pioneers. We could see the efforts of Sandra, how she has painted the homestead, the shearers’ quarters, the lot! They have brought up two sons and Chloe, and worked hard enough that they were able to send them to boarding school in Toowoomba. Sandra was a hairdresser in Quilpie when she met Mark, and now she says she hardly has time to comb her hair! But she is slender and attractive, and a lively companion to the tall, good looking Mark. A film evening in the common room depicted the early days. We marvelled at how much style this outback country engenders. They said that the people of the West really know how to entertain. They drive hundreds of kilometres to a party, which goes all night. Yes, they party well. They earn every penny they make, in my opinion. They are good at sharing themselves. How we loved their company! And they seemed to need ours. It was a privilege to visit with them. Good on them, and long may they reign over their beloved Ray Station.

The Visit | sexinyourseventies.com

THE VISIT. It was not the huge success that I had aimed for. Definitely not. I was comforted by the fact that I had tried so hard and had endeavoured beyond my energies at the time to bring about a great outcome. I had failed, but it was not my fault. I knew it would not be easy to accomodate my ex-husband for some five days over the Christmas period. He was desperately lonely, still grieving over the loss of his partner of twenty years who had died a year or more ago. My daughters did not know what to do with him. They all had their own agendas for the holidays; the children had to be considered after all. And we all knew he was difficult and boring. Oh yes… I was confident in my ability to cope with him as a guest. During a recent battle with cancer, that had involved a six-week stay in Brisbane for a radiation course, I had accepted his invitation to stay with him. He could do with the company, he told Caroline. Out of kindness more than anything, and a willingness to heal breaches, I stayed for two nights and was treated well. The food was good, for he is an adequate cook, and the spare bed caught a pleasant breeze on those hot, sultry nights. I was quite comfortable. I was feeling the fatigue that is involved with radiation treatment, and asked nothing more than to be left alone to rest. I had no complaints at all and thanked him sincerely and well. He had done his best to make me feel welcome. So I looked forward to his visit and prepared for the stay despite my flagging energy levels. I was suffering somewhat both physically and psychologically, as can be imagined. But I had long known that when one feels a bit sorry for oneself, the best cure is to help another. He was younger than I, but really not as sprightly as I was at 83, and I determined to make his stay a memorable and happy one. Daughter Susan who lived in the next street on acreage was having a musical evening of carol singing and vaudeville acts at which I was to play the piano, as usual. We brought forward his visit so that he might enjoy, as we knew he would, the evening of song. It was a great success with lots of laughter and fun. He had a great time. I arranged a card game of six-handed ‘500’, his favourite. I conscripted six reasonably good players, and put on lunch for all at my home. Again he enjoyed it immensely. I took him on a drive around the mountain, ostensibly to buy avocadoes. He always likes to take some home. We had purchased several each at one venue, and were driving past another when we decided to have a look at the wares. I had bought mine and had put my money in the tin. He was about to put $5 in the slot, when the male owner appeared. ‘G’day Doreen,’ he began, ‘How are you?’ It was an old friend who had once commissioned me to paint a picture of his family home, an old Queenslander on the Logan. We chatted away and I asked if he had a copy of my latest book, Sex in Your Seventies. He didn’t, but would like to buy one. Did I have a copy on me? ‘I have one in the car, Les, but it’s Christmas, and will be a gift…for old times’ sake.’ I proceeded to the car and returned with a signed copy, which he most happily accepted. He would not allow Colin to put his money in and loaded up his bag with more avocadoes, cucumbers and chokos. Then more avocadoes, more of whatever we wanted. Our large grocery bags were filled to overflowing. Then he wanted me to see his dahlias, which were indeed splendid. He helped us into the car with our produce, as rain was threatening. ‘Well…we certainly got a good haul there,’ my ex-husband remarked gleefully when I resumed the road home. He loved it, and put in his car all the chokos and cucumbers and the greater part of the avocadoes. There was no need to buy anything to take home with him. What a day! So I can be forgiven for thinking I had given him a good few days. I had put heat packs on his troublesome shoulders, and ensconced him in my vibrating ‘Niagara’ chair, which he loved. He was not able to help me in any way, due to his painful shoulders and knees, save to take the household rubbish out to the garbage bin. I dug the compost into the garden, picked the beans and ran the messages, as well as cooking good meals and waiting on table. It was all my pleasure to do so. Then Caroline, Scott and daughter Holly arrived for Christmas tea. I had served a good hearty breakfast, a good hot dinner at midday, and had baked two chickens and a ham to take to daughter Susan’s that night. Some two metres away from me in the living room, Caroline asked jauntily, knowing we had had an interesting and full few days, ‘Well, Dad, how have you enjoyed your stay with Mum?’ She obviously presumed he would have a positive response, but he, not realising I was witnessing the episode, turned the corners of his mouth down, and replied sadly, ‘Aw…all right…’ I was aghast. I shrieked, ‘What did he say?’ Caroline was shocked because I had been telling her what a good time I had given him. ‘Yes, Dad, what do you mean?’ He realised I expected his response to be different. ‘No…no,’ he insisted as he came over to me, ‘it has been…quite nice really…’ I was still as hurt and bewildered. To me, ‘quite nice’ is an insult. Always has been. To say I was taken aback is to put it mildly. But we had a party to attend, and I said no more. Neither did he. But I was not my usual chirpy self. Neither was I the next day, and he knew I was miffed. At every opportunity, he remarked loudly what a great hostess I was, how welcome I had made him etc, etc. But all it made me do was want to hit him! I remained pleasant, but not effusive. When he left he kissed me on the cheek and thanked me for a lovely time. I remained passive, saying, ‘You are welcome…’ I suppose I was dignified, that’s all. And now I must get my morale in good shape again. Another task. My exuberance has taken a beating. I need good company, someone who is positive, who does not whinge about everything…the world, the economy, the family, religion, immigrants, the weather, bloody kids, his health, his loneliness…spare me! For a Pollyanna like myself, it was all a bit much.

WHEN HE LEFT HIS TEETH ON THE STUMP AT THE CARNARVONS | sexinyourseventies.com

The group was talking about the various objects that they had forgotten to take with them when they had left a restaurant, a motel, or ship or the like. I recalled an episode in my life: He and I had been a couple for five years. Not a terribly romantic relationship, but we were suitable partners in many ways. We respected each other, had a good love life, and did not quarrel. But he did get grumpy at times, especially when he became bored with a situation that was not exactly to his liking. That’s how he was at the Carnarvons. He had a campervan in which we had travelled, at my instigation, to the famous Carnarvon Range campsite. It was pretty primitive in those days, but I thought he had enjoyed the bush walks over rocky creeks, up dizzying heights and over many kilometres to glimpse the fabulous terrain. He didn’t say much, and did not gasp in wonder as I had when we came upon the aboriginal art of long ago. He was not a man of many words, but I sensed a relief when we finally packed up to go home. We were about a hundred kilometres on our way when I offered him a piece of his favourite crystallised ginger, which he accepted with a little smile. It was enough to educe a scream from me… ‘Your teeth!’ I yelled, ‘Where are your teeth?’ He had a partial plate with several bicuspids on it, not a big affair, but it made a huge difference to his appearance. He kept on driving. It didn’t take long for him to realise that the denture was indeed missing, but he kept his eye on the corrugated road, not slackening our pace at all. ‘We’ll have to go back!’ I urged, ‘You must have left them at the campground! Where do you think they are?’ ‘I cleaned my teeth just before we left,’ he replied rather testily, ‘I was so glad to get away from that damn place, I must have left them on the stump!’ As I said, the campsite was pretty primitive, and the nearest place for us to clean our teeth was at a tap that sprouted from the ground next to a sawn off tree stump that served as a repository for toothbrush…or dentures. ‘We must go back and get them!’ I implored as he kept up the driving speed, ‘Turn around!’ ‘No… the bloody things can stay there!’ he shouted angrily, ‘ I’m not going back to that place!’ And that was that. The rest of the journey home was conducted in a rather sombre manner. Of course, as soon as we arrived home, I phoned the camp ranger who was quite charming as I explained the delicate situation. He assured me he would do his best to find ‘the site that fielded the stump that held the teeth that belonged to my mate’ who was still cranky with himself. The ranger later phoned me back to assure me he had found the precious item, and he would post them to me forthwith. Done.

Who Needs the Help? | sexinyourseventies.com

Who needs the Help? A nice man called to discuss my book. He told me about his recent trip to Bali. ‘They are such a happy people. It is amazing how they build a big building. They frame up the huge beams where they are to remain and wheelbarrow the concrete up a plank to the site. Sometimes, the women carry the concrete, five big containers at once; one on her head, two on each end of a pole slung across their shoulders. Two or three generations all live in the one small abode, all with smiles on their faces. What a lot we have to learn from them! They dress shabbily really, but at festival time, such amazing finery comes out! Beautiful garments for all the family, even the children. I was observing a woman cart water, heavy stuff. I thought to myself, ‘I would like to help them…’ But the thought then occurred to me…WE ARE THE ONES WHO NEED HELP!’

WOMEN IN WAR | sexinyourseventies.com

I was eleven when the Second World War began in 1939, and seventeen when it ended in 1945. A lot happened to me during those six years. My father had left the dairy farm at Buccan three years earlier and settled at the Dunellan Estate, now Greenslopes, in Brisbane. A clever young man, he had worked to get his credentials, and was just establishing himself in the building industry. When war was declared, we feared that he would be called up in the army, as he was an officer in the Army Reserve. When he was newly married with a young babe, Dad was the only Queenslander selected to attend the military college at Duntroon. He declined reluctantly, as this was a big honour, but he was needed to run the farm that his parents and grandparents had established through dint of very hard work since 1884. The army did not give up easily, and one day, at about milking time, a Major in a staff car arrived to try to convince young Harry that the army was the place for him. The officer had not bargained on my grandmother. This was 1924, and the horrors of the Great War were still fresh in the minds of most. Dad explained gently and reasonably why he could not accept the position, but the Major persisted. ‘No!’ said Harry’s mother, ‘you get someone else to go!’ ‘But it’s your son that we want, Mrs Wendt,’ he replied, ‘he’s the type we need, a good style of fellow, intelligent and smart…’ ‘No, no…I’m afraid not…you get someone else to be your cannon fodder! Not my son!’ And that was that. The chap who went in Dad’s place became a Major-General. As the war darkened in those first couple of years, all available men were called up to explain why they should not be conscripted into the services. Dad was ready to go, but the authorities thought otherwise, and drafted him into the Civil Construction Corps. He was more valuable to his country as a builder than a soldier. Australia’s position was perilous in 1942, when the advancing Japanese army seemed to sweep all before it. Singapore had fallen, and it was a relief to many when America entered the war after the attack on Honolulu. Thousands of American troops were sent over here, and that meant that Army camps must be built, and quickly! My father was one of those who built Camp Cable, between Logan Village and Tamborine. The 32nd US Infantry Division was housed there, mainly in tents, but offices, hospitals, canteens, latrines and recreational halls and the like were timber constructions. This left my mother and her three girls at home. Every person was called on to do her bit for the war effort. I won a scholarship to the Brisbane Girls’ Grammar School when I was fourteen. Joan worked at an essential service, the South Brisbane Gas Company, and was ‘man-powered’ into remaining there, unable to leave. Daphne, aged six, was at Greenslopes State School, three blocks from our home. We had no car, Dad taking the little Vauxhall to Camp Cable with him. Then the unthinkable happened—Brisbane had an air raid alert! Two Japanese planes came down as far as Gympie. The sirens sounded and everyone headed for their places of safety. We had zigzag trenches at school, and all homes had some sort of air raid shelter. We shared a proper dugout with protective roof with our neighbours. It was scary at school, crouching in those damp, open trenches, not knowing what to expect next, until the wail of the ‘all clear’ went some hours later. After the second alert, all schools in the metropolitan area were closed. My mother decided that I, being considered a ‘bright’ pupil, should go to boarding school in the country. Along with a lot of other girls, I boarded a train for Warwick, to join the rest of the boarders at St Catharine’s C of E School, where I remained for six months. I then resumed my education at Girls’ Grammar until I completed my Junior Examination at the end of 1943, when I was still fifteen. I won an extension scholarship, but it was decided that I should leave school to be part of the ‘war effort.’ Besides, money was tight at home with my father away, just on the meagre wages of the CCC. The stay-at-home mothers were not exempt from wartime duties. Everyone who was able was expected to volunteer. Mum did something called ‘plane spotting’. It was hush-hush, and she told us little. But we gathered that at this place in town they knew every plane that passed over, and as it did these women would stick berry pins or similar into the big maps to mark the position of the plane. We knew better than to ask her for more information. Most women were fund raisers of some sort. There were stalls in the city’s streets selling wares of all kind to provide comfort funds for the troops. We were all knitting socks and balaclavas for servicemen in the European Zone. A lot of young women who were not in the armed services, joined the Land Army, growing the crops needed for our food. Women took over the men’s jobs and became ‘postmen’, taxi drivers, tram conductresses and factory workers. There were aluminium drives to gather metal to make warplanes. Mr Marshall Palmer who owned the Hollywood Theatre at Greenslopes, announced there would be free admission to the Saturday Matinee to all those who brought an item of aluminium. I forgot the old saucepan that my mother had given to me, but my friend Dulcie had two saucepan lids, gave me one, and we both saw the ‘pictures’ for nothing. Brisbane was a garrison town. I believe there were more than 100,000 American servicemen stationed there… Army, Navy, Air Corps, even Marines. The few Australian army personnel who came through our city did not like much the ‘Yanks.’ They referred to them as being ‘overfed, overpaid, oversexed, and over here.’ But the Japanese had come within thirty miles (about 48 ks) of Port Moresby. Our poor young lads in the Citizens Military Force had done their best to halt the enemy, but it was the US Infantry from Camp Cable that greatly turned the tide in the Buna Sananander Campaign, along with the valiant Aussies recalled from the Middle East to go almost immediately to New Guinea to reclaim the Owen Stanley Range…the Kokodo Track. It was up to the women, the mothers, the householders to make some of these soldiers welcome, to give them a taste of home that they surely missed. When Dad was still at home, early in the war, the USS Houston and another ship paid a visit. There was a great parade, and we all went and waved our flags. My father invited two of the sailors to come home to dinner that night, to our great glee. They were charming, grateful young men who sang as I played the popular songs on the piano. Dad drove them back to their ship, and that was the last we heard of them. But many years later, on reading an account of the infamous Burmese railway on which starving prisoners-of-war were mercilessly worked, I saw that there were present also some survivors from the ‘Houston’, which had been sunk in the Battle of the Coral Sea, off Townsville. When building the camp near Logan Village, Dad would come home every second week-end if possible. He would bring two soldier friends with him in his little car, and they would sleep on stretchers on the closed-in verandah, Mum making them very welcome. They were always a little older than most, around thirty- –old enough I suppose, to not make passes at my sister or me. Some were married and would show us photos of their family. On Saturday night, they went to the dance at the City Hall. Joan, who was two years older than I, would go and Mum would chaperone. At long last I was allowed to go also. I think I was perhaps the only Grammar girl who would go dancing at the weekend! My mother never complained of tiredness, although it must have been an exhausting time, catering for the sudden influx of guests at the weekend. To remain cheerful was paramount, because there was sadness all around as news came through of losses at sea, on the ground…and those personal losses that cut so deep. When I left school and was seeking my first job, I was directed to the US Army, which was in need of workers. They paid well, but worked us hard. They expected a high standard, and we worked six eight hour days a week, plus shift work. I initially worked in the Army Post Office in the old School of Arts next to the dry dock at South Brisbane. Our shifts were 7am till 3pm, 3pm till 11pm. Only soldiers were required to work the 11pm till 6am shift. During my eighteen months at the Post Office, there was an unsolved murder of a young woman, Betty Shanks, on the North side of Brisbane. When I was on the late shift, my worried mother would get out of bed and don Dad’s great coat over her pyjamas, cram one of his felt hats on her head and wait for me at the tram stop, a couple of blocks away. She was concerned for herself as well I suppose, and hoped she looked like a man in the ill-lit street. It was a comfort to me, because I was always worried that I might miss the tram, which was the last one for the night to that destination. I had another problem. I was short-sighted, but would not wear my spectacles, considering them too ugly to be seen on my nose at any time. There was no prospect of obtaining new, pretty glasses, not in wartime! I just put those horn-rims in their case and pretended I could see as well as the other girls. I think my mother presumed my eyesight had improved, and besides, she and Dad had the war to think about. But my job was sorting mail! I was confronted with all these pigeon holes with the name of each state in the US on them, and a whole row at the bottom labelled with the names of the major cities, New York, Chicago etc. Altogether there were fifty-six holes, and it was slow going for me for a while. Our output in letters was weighed, and mine was not good. I was warned I should lift my game or be dismissed. It was natural that I should memorise the position of the boxes, and in time I became one of the quickest at sorting mail, because I had no need to look at the labels; I just knew where the particular pigeon hole was. I was still only fifteen. I confided in one girl, Bunny, that I was short-sighted and could not see the name on the trams, and she would wait until my tram came along before catching her own. If perchance I was alone, I would feign an American accent, wait until the tram had stopped, and ask the conductor if this tram went to Greenslopes? Easter arrived and Bunny and I had four days off work. Mum and Aunty Lil decided they would take us camping…to Coolangatta. They arranged for a friend with a truck to take them, an old borrowed tent and my young sister to the campsite behind the shops, near the old train line. Bunny and I were to travel by bus. It was heavenly, a break from the war; sun, surf and skating! Bananas were in season, and we lived on fresh bread spread with condensed milk and sliced banana. Delicious and easy. Clothing was rationed, and I had no swimsuit. Cotton tablecloths were available at times with no coupons needed. A pale blue and white flowered one became, for me, a two-piece swimsuit that was quite presentable. We two went roller skating at the rink near Kirra beach, and there I met and skated with a young American sailor who asked me to the ‘movies.’ ‘Definitely not!’ my mother said, and he took Bunny instead. A romance blossomed, they married, had four children, returned to Australia where he became very well known as a respected potter…Carl McConnell. Most of us smoked cigarettes. It was the fashion of the day, and how I regret it. But cigarettes were hard to come by. However, there was a system operating at my work by which my mother would make a rich fruit cake in return for a carton of Lucky Strikes, or Pall Malls, or Marlboros…whatever. I was the go-between, and had my contact at the Post Office, a studious young soldier who did not smoke, but who received his ration from the PX as did all the others. I was very popular at home when I arrived with my booty, and a very happy GI enjoyed his home-baked cakes. The Japanese were gradually pushed back from New Guinea, and General MacArthur eventually returned to the Philippines, which he had vowed to do. The Post Office was relocated first to Townsville, and then to headquarters with the General. I was transferred to the Adjutant-General’s Department when a lot of the girls were dismissed. I was taken in a staff car to Victoria Park, to a Quonset hut, number Four. There I was shown a huge pile of books and papers, and dozens of shelves. ‘We want you to sort this lot out,’ announced the Sergeant who had brought me there. I became, at sixteen, a librarian. I was in charge of all the Field Manuals and Technical Manuals for the US Army in the South West Pacific Area. Requisitions would come to me from all areas for varied information…from how to service an army truck, or a gun…to how to cook for 600 men…whatever was required; I would find and send the number of publications that was asked for. It was a responsible job that I enjoyed. I remained there until the war was almost over. I had not long turned sixteen when my father returned home, still with the CCC, but now working at a motor pool at Virginia in Brisbane. Camp Cable was followed by a big army camp at Wallangarra, but this being now completed, Dad was happy to come home and work the usual hours. He had a particular friend, Slim, from Idaho, whom he would bring home for dinner regularly. Slim was a bit of a rough diamond, a man’s man who didn’t take much notice of us girls…he was too old anyway at twenty-nine. He was Dad’s buddy after all, and the two men would spend their leisure time chatting away. One night, he asked Mum and Dad if he could he bring his ‘kid brother’ to our home, as the latter was in Brisbane. He had been in the army hospital at Goodna suffering from typhus, was now on leave before returning to his unit at the front. ‘Of course, Slim, bring him over tomorrow,’ was the inevitable answer. They arrived with Dad, and we were surprised at how different they were. The younger man was twenty-three, tall like his brother, but fair with clean-cut features, and gentle mannered. He fitted into our family very well. My mother would bid me play the piano as she prepared dinner, and he would follow into the lounge room and stand behind me as I played, sometimes singing softly along with me. He would sort through my sheet music, and request various songs. He told me about his life in America, six feet of snow in the Rockies, his mother, and how he was going to be a PT instructor when he returned. ‘How would you like to come dancing with me one night?’ he asked me after a time. ‘To the Officers’ Club in Queen Street? You would enjoy the music. They have a live army band.’ ‘You’ll have to ask Mum,’ I replied, really thrilled at the prospect. And he did. I can still hear him saying, ‘Agatha, would it be all right if I took Doreen dancing one night?’¬¬ Mum said she would ask Dad, and they both agreed it would be okay if Joan went also. ‘Sure,’ he replied, ‘I have a very nice friend who is very lonely, who would love to come along. He’s a First Lieutenant in the Air Corps, from Iowa. I met him in the hospital.’ And that’s how it started. When I was on early shift, Joan and I would dress up in our best dresses and high heels and meet this handsome pair in Queen Street. We always went to the Officers’ Club where we met other men and army nurses, and danced the night away. I only danced with him, and he seemed to have eyes only for me. The ride home in the taxi, Joan and I on their laps, was one big cuddle. The two men then took to visiting our home without Slim, and everyone became very fond of them. We knew it would ultimately end when they were well enough to return to their units. And it did. My boy was the first to leave, then the other soon after. My world seemed to end. But soon I had a letter from him, telling me how pretty I was, and that he was hungry. Could Agatha bake a cake and send it up? Mum and I got to work, cooked a big rich fruit cake in a Willow tin, wrapped and sewed it in calico on which we wrote his name and address. I posted it myself at work, knowing it would take some time to get to him. More letters followed, but no mention yet of the cake’s arrival. Then a worrying letter arrived from one of our friends, an Army Nurse who had also returned to the front. Peggy wrote to my mother that she had seen ‘Junior’ as she called my boyfriend, but now she supposed the only time she would see him would be drinking beer with St Peter, or shovelling coal. We knew, of course we knew, but we did not want to believe the implication. Definitely not. We were all in denial, hoping he had been returned home or similar. We knew there was never to be given out any information in letters. All servicemen’s letters were censored, and often large tracts were cut out that might inform the enemy in any way, but Peggy was an officer, whose letters were not censored, but who knew how much she could, or could not say. They could not reveal where they were, but we knew the ‘push’ was in Dutch New Guinea, that they were in the vicinity of Hollandia on the North coast. And my quest began. Because I worked for the US Army, I had friends who worked in the Directory. I had once worked there myself, and knew the huge number of personal cards involved, one for each serviceman, all in alphabetical order. I asked one particular friend to look out for relevant information on my boy. Sure enough in a couple of weeks, she came to me with his card, stamped with a large DECEASED in red. I am afraid I was not stoical at all. I collapsed and was taken home in a staff car. We were all devastated, but were reminded that this was war. Joan received a letter from her friend, also in the same area, who said he had visited his mate’s grave and said prayers for all of us. Sadly, this man also lost his life when his plane went down on the way to Luzon. And there were others. Sometimes the burden of grief just cannot get any worse, you almost become deadened to the pain. My father’s cousin had three sons away with the AIF, fighting in New Guinea, leaving only herself and her aging husband to run the farm. Two of the boys were killed in action. To its credit, the army found the other son and sent him back to the mainland¬¬¬¬. The mother wore, until her death, a double medallion holding their photos. There was jubilation when the war ended, but for those who had lost loved ones, it was difficult to celebrate.¬¬ For women, life had changed. They had won independence and were now standing on their own two feet. The men returning home after long absences needed the strength of their women to sustain them in their re-establishment. There is a ‘post script’ to this story… In 1991, I travelled to America with a friend for the wedding of my nephew in Washington DC. We decided to take a 30day Greyhound pass to journey across the US, taking in Idaho on the way. I had written to my lad’s mother for years until she died; then to his sister for a while. I wrote again, after years, and received an excited answer. She would meet me in Pocatello and take us home to Idaho Falls where we would stay for a few days. Sadly, Slim had died a week before my letter arrived. It was a poignant visit indeed, but one day she said, ‘Doreen, can you throw some light on a fruit cake that Mother kept in a tin for years? She would not let anyone touch it. We believe it came home with our young brother’s personal effects.’ So I told her the story. Doreen Wendt-Weir 14 Main Street, North Tamborine Q 4272 Phone 5545 2100 doreenwendtweir@gmail.com sexinyourseventies.com

Women’s Health Magazine – a full page entry | sexinyourseventies.com

I was delighted to be asked to express my views!

YOU ARE JUST STARTING TO LEARN A BIT WHEN YOU HAVE TO BLOODY-WELL DIE! | sexinyourseventies.com

YOU ARE JUST STARTING TO LEARN A BIT, WHEN YOU HAVE TO BLOODY-WELL DIE! That’s what my father used to say when he was in his eighties. And now I am at least THINKING it. Yes, it is true. It sometimes takes a lifetime to really understand some issues…or someone. Perhaps it is because when one gets older, one might have more time to ponder. Maybe life is not so frantic, or is it that we have learned at last to ‘walk in the other fellow’s shoes’…as my father also used to advise. This might not apply to everyone. I am only speaking personally. And I have had a lot of solitude, more than most, in which to think and reason. Am I fortunate to have had this solitude? It has not exactly been loneliness, although that has been present at times. I have found that I cannot write well, from the heart, unless I am feeling lonely. My best poetry has been penned during periods of devastation over something or other. At this advanced age of eighty-nine, I wonder sometimes if it is worth going to all these classes and courses that I attend. Physics, Latin, French, Homer, opera, movie classics etc. I am still being educated. I considered all of this when I was seventy-one. I attended university on campus and obtained two degrees, my B.A and B.A Hons. I was often told (off campus) that I was too old, that it was too late, that I would never use my latter day education. But I did. I have written several books since, and have been in demand for guest speaking and other appearances as a result. But not because of my two degrees. Oh no! It’s because of the difference the knowledge gained made to my inner self. Not just to my self-confidence, which certainly needed a boost, but to my ability to understand and consider. To reason. To put myself in the other fellow’s shoes. The more we know, the more we realise how much we do not know. To admit lack of knowledge on some subject is now easy for me. I feel I am putting my education to good use by learning more, and thereby being better able to contribute in the time left to me.

IS THAT YOU JESUS? | sexinyourseventies.com

IS THAT YOU, JESUS? My grandmother lived until she was 98, a very devout mother of four who had seen good times and bad in her long life. My father, Harry, was her youngest child, and the others would say that their mother would skin them to make a coat for Harry! Yes, he was the favourite, but then, he was a good and loving son. He was always there for her. Grandma enjoyed good health as a rule, but there were episodes of trouble when she would insist that she was dying ‘this time.’ On one such occasion, she was hospitalised and was drifting in and out of consciousness. Dad had elected to stay with her, and had been at her bedside for a considerable time. He was wearily leaning on his elbows, tired-eyed and sleepless, when a little moan escaped her lips. Her eyelids fluttered. She looked at him. ‘Is that you, Jesus?’ she weakly asked, gazing adoringly at the figure seated at her side. ‘No Mum, it’s me, Harry,’ her son replied. ‘Oh…it’s you Harry! I thought I had died and gone to Heaven! It looked like Jesus sitting there…! So much for a mother’s love.