Category Archives: Rod’s Blog

For those of you who have read my previous post about dogs, you will realise that Karyn and I are in Canberra, the Nation’s capital.  And a wonderful place it is.  We are of course here at the end of summer and the leaves on some of the trees are already turning their toes up.  It is undoubtedly a different story in winter.

We visited most of the points of interest found in capital cities of the world, such as the War Memorial, Parliament House, National Art Galley and Science Centre.  All excellent and mostly free except for the very special Toulouse Lautrec exhibition at the gallery.  My art education has received a much needed boost.

On our way into the city centre the other day, we passed the famous Duntroon Royal Military College (RMC).  This is the location where future army officers are trained in the ways of war.  It took me back to my days at the Officer Training Unit at Scheyville, just outside Sydney, when I was undertaking National Service, – a program introduced to provide cannon fodder for the Vietnam War.  The Army needed officer cannon fodder as well and I was fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate to be selected to undertake six months of hell.

When Whitlam was elected, he pulled out the troops from Vietnam and cancelled National Service.  Three cheers all round.  Scheyville was closed and all of the important bits of stuff were packed up and sent off to Duntroon for storage and possibly display in the museum.  I am also led to believe that the Battalion colours and banner were part of this memorabilia.  It just so happens that these particular items were presented to the Battalion by the Governor General on the occasion of my graduation as an officer.  It also just so happens, that I was the parade commander.  In the scheme of things, none of this is a big deal, but at the time it was quite significant.

Now, I have had no real interest in anything to do with the military since completing my two year stint at the end of 1968.  Reunions involving marching down the streets and church parades all leave me a bit cold.  And what is it with the church and the military?  From a philosophical point of view, I would think that they should be poles apart.  Instead, they are joined at the hip.  Go figure.  Sorry, I digress.

However, as we passed the gates of Duntroon, for some reason, I wondered if it may be worth a visit, just to check out the old Battalion Colours.  Thinking that access to this hallowed ground would be difficult, I assumed that a phone call would be a great place to start.  The number for RMC provided by the wonders of the Internet, put me through to the golf course.  So I searched again. Each time I tried a different number it only lead me back to the golf.  I thought that maybe that’s all they do these days in preparation for fighting in Afghanistan.  Lots of sand bunkers there.

Eventually I was put through to the Department of Defence switch board.  Following intense interrogation as to my business, I was transferred to another number.  The gentleman who answered the phone was out walking his dog.  He said the he only worked at RMC a few days of the week and this was not one of them.  He did however suggest that I just drive through the main gates, check into the guard house and they will direct me to the museum.

My memory of military guard houses is that they are very formal locations with lots of spit and polish and checking in procedures.  They can also be quite frightening to the uninitiated.  The first time I went through the gates of my new posting at the Pacific Island Regiment in New Guinea, a soldier jumped out in front of the car with rifle and bayonet attached and shouted “HALT,WHO GOES THERE”.  I remember thinking at the time that if I wasn’t careful, I would very quickly change the colours of my undies.

On this occasion, I simply drove through the very impressive gates of Duntroon and just kept on going.  But where is the guard house?  I couldn’t find it.  There was a sign that said that the grounds were patrolled by armed guards, but that was all.  I stopped a couple of young cadets and they seemed a little puzzled and vaguely pointed in the direction further up the road.  I passed the RMC headquarters and thought I might ask there.  The young army corporal who greeted me at the door said it was up around the corner.  I still couldn’t find it.  I stopped an army officer and he directed me back along the road and up a side street to a few shops.  I parked the car and began my search.  Eventually I found a room that had a sign -DUTY OFFICE on the door.  This must be it.  I entered the room and after a bit of a wait was greeted by the only person in residence.

At this point, I must digress again and take you back to my visit to the National Art Gallery.  I hope you will understand the diversion shortly.  One of the exhibits at the gallery that took my attention was a large painting with the words AUSTRALIAN RACISM printed across the canvas.  Underneath these words , was a whole lot of smaller printing that filled the total picture.  Each sentence began with the words “I’m not a racist, but”.  In each case this was followed by a series of very common statements often used to describe people of other nationalities.  It was quite disturbing, but a very accurate description of racism in this country.  Now it’s back to the guard house.

The person who greeted me was not in the military.  He wore the uniform of ACME Security Company, and while I am not a racist, but… it just so happened that the gentleman concerned looked like he started life in Pakistan, or somewhere very close by, like maybe Afghanistan?  Now of course, to even make a statement of this sort is possibly racist, and I haven’t even hinted at terrorism, but I must admit, I was rather taken by surprise.

He tried to be very helpful, and even though he had worked at RMC for six months, he did not have a clue where the museum was.  We searched on the map and could not find it.  Then his boss arrived.  I thought he may be from the military.  No, he was also from ACME security and quite possibly my new found friend’s brother or cousin.  He could not help either.

Now, I am not usually a quitter, but at this point, I simply gave up, hopped in the car and drove out once again through the Duntroon gates.  As I drove, I wondered if the ACME security company also provided the guards who picked up their weapons at night and patrolled the grounds.

Things have changed since I was in the military.  And while I have trouble with the concept of outsourcing, at least one positive is that individuals are not judged by the colour of their skin, or race, in order to take up positions of responsibility.

P.S.  A few days after we left Canberra, I received a call from an officer from RMC.  He was responding to a message I had left during my initial search.  He said that the museum was closed due to the resignation of the person responsible.  The Scheyville memorabilia was now displayed in the cadet’s mess and could be accessed next time we were in Canberra, by going through the Adjutant’s office.  All is not lost.

I like dogs.  They are just so giving and forgiving and wonderful companions.  Hospitals, aged care facilities and even prisons use them as part of their treatment and rehabilitation programs.  It seems that no matter how much a dog may be neglected or taken for granted, they will always be there with an expectant look and a wag of the tail.

There is an old story that goes something like this:

Question – How do you know whether your dog or your partner loves you the most?

Answer – Put them both in the boot of your car and close the lid.  Open it twenty minutes later and see which one is still happy to see you.

Don’t try this at home.

Karyn and I have both owned dogs, though we don’t have one at the moment.  Karyn would REALLY, REALLY just love to have “A LITTLE PUPPY”, but it is not practical due to our rather roving lifestyle.

In our trip so far, we have seen lots of dogs.  Winery dogs that sit at the entrance of the tasting rooms and greet the thirsty customers, (there is even a whole book published on these) the house dogs doing their territorial duty that bark at us, thankfully behind the confines of the fence, and the farm dogs that sit on the back of utes and round up sheep and cattle on command.

And then there are the dogs that are not really dogs at all.  Well they are dogs, but are not really allowed to behave like dogs.  We first met them at the Kangaroo Valley Show.  By the way, Kangaroo Valley is possibly one of the most beautiful locations in Australia.  We free camped beside the Kangaroo River for the few days that the annual show was in town.  Just an added bonus.  Now when I have seen dogs at agricultural shows before, they have always been working dogs that that get timed on how quickly they can round up a few sheep and put them in a small holding pen.  The whole experience is a pure delight and a wonderful Aussie tradition.

On this occasion, I accidently came across the “SHOW” dog section.  Here dogs are not judged on what they can do, but on what they look like.  The first one I observed was this enormous white poodle.  Well I think it was a poodle.  Most of its hair had been shaved off to reveal this very ugly pink and grey skin.  The remaining tufts of hair were being shampooed, blown dry and then preened by the owners.  They looked a little like poodles themselves and the whole event was taking place in an open tent that could very easily pass for a mobile hairdressing salon.  I started to feel quite ill and at one stage thought I might throw up.

Thankfully, Karyn rescued me and managed to hold me upright while we completed the rest of the tour.  We did the rounds of all the tents and the same scene was repeated each time. – Preening owners, prancing and pruning around perfectly manicured stationary objects that only on close inspection revealed dog like features.  In one such tent, one owner had her other baby (in this case, a human one) tucked away in a corner looking quite neglected.  And it was.

And then came the judging.  Each owner would present their prized possession to the very serious grey coated supreme pontiff for a bit of a feel job and then a prance around the ring.  I discovered that these dogs could actually move.  But it was the movement of the owners that had me intrigued.  The poodle owner had this stiff legged stride especially for the occasion and constantly jerked on the lead to keep the dog’s head high, just in case it remembered that it was actually a dog and wanted to sniff the ground and check out the scent of its companion non dogs.

All the contenders were then lined up for a final inspection and one owner had this little trick of holding a special treat in such a position that her dog’s head was constantly in the correct position.  Finally the mounting tension was released when the Pontiff waved her hand in the direction of the patchy poodle.  The supreme non dog of the Kangaroo Valley annual show was announced.  The pampered poodle owner pranced across to the pontiff to receive her prize and all the other owners hung their heads and developed a collective hang dog look.

I thought that we should call in the RSPCA and have all the owners and the pontiff all charged with cruelty to animals.

But it didn’t stop there.  We were heading for the National capital to check out the sites and catch up with friends.  Ian and Jill are travelling in their van with their dog, Chandon.  Now Chandon is a real dog and a beauty – An Australian cattle dog the colour of champagne, so hence the name.  They had booked into a caravan park that allows animals, so we did the same.  Our other friends, Wayne and Liz have been travelling in their car and were booked into the local motel.  It was like old home week with lots of hugs when we all arrived together.  We were looking forward to a wonderful week.

But, it just so happens that our arrival in Canberra coincided with the annual agricultural show.  This show also has non dog judging, and the non dog owners who travel in from all over, have to find a place to stay.  By now, those of you who are quick off the mark will have picked where all of this is going, but for the slow ones, no names mentioned, I will spell it out.

A very small campervan arrived and parked at the back of our annex.  It was very close.  The owner disembarked and proceeded to open the side sliding door.  Then she removed the fence, yes a fence, and proceeded to erect it in the form of a circle, with the only opening being the door of the van.  Then she pulled out a table with numerous pillows and a full sized free standing hair dryer thing that you see in the hair dressers shops.  I was transfixed in anticipation.  And then came the hose and all the brushes and combs.  It was only a small van.  And then came the dogs.  One, Two, Three, and finally, Four.  THERE WERE FOUR DOGS IN THIS TINY VAN.

She then proceeded to wash, dry, prune and prod each dog in turn.  She had actually taught them to put their head on a pillow and hold it perfectly still, while she carried out the finer points of the pampering process.  She told me that she was here for the show.  I would never have guessed.  We closed the back of our annex and opened the other end.

The following morning she packed everything up with the promise to return in the evening.  I could hardly wait.  For some reason however, she never arrived.  Possibly eliminated in the first round, dropped her bundle and sulked off home.  But never fear, she was just replaced by others.  We were completely surrounded and every van seemed to have multiple non dogs – All here for the show.  In one group, the all owners had uniforms.  On the back of their shirt were the words – SYDNEY PSYCHOS.  I thought, how appropriate.  I wonder who thought that one up?   Some of their non dogs had also picked up on the terminology as well, and were behaving in a manner in keeping with their name.  We closed the front entrance of our annex and bunkered down.

The show ends today and hopefully we will be left in peace.  Thankfully, Chandon will still be around, to remind us of what real dogs are like.

 It all happened on day two of our WALK.   Yes you read that correctly – WALK.  I wrote it in capitals to make a point.  I thought that we were going to New Zealand for a bike ride, but somehow there was a three day walk in the Southern Alps thrown in for good measure.  The lovely Karyn, and our good friend Betti, who was coming along as well, suggested it would be just great if we did a bit of a warm up before the real thing.

  Anyway, here I was, walking along, with my full pack, (we were sleeping on the ground in a tent), when I was accosted by a rather distraught middle aged woman with badly dyed blond hair.  She wanted to know if I was David Gold.  As it was raining at the time, and I was fully disguised in my wet weather gear, I at first assumed that she just mistook me for someone she knew.  When I assured her that I wasn’t, I thought she was going to transform into the dreaded five star general who constantly harassed me on our last sojourn into Europe.  I don’t think that she believed me.  Luckily I was saved by Karyn and Betti who were heading along the track in our direction.  She quickly turned her attention to them and mumbled something about David Gold being one of them.  I was about to explain that, as they were both  female, this would be somewhat difficult, but just made a dash instead.  I imagined that she  must have been corresponding with the lovely David and this venture into the wilderness was to be the first real test of their relationship.  She’d possibly been accosting unsuspecting walkers for days.  He may have developed cold feet or was hiding in the bushes somewhere in order to check her out in the flesh.

 So, here we were, on another mountain, in the rain, thunder storms predicted for the evening, snow in the high country and freezing down to 1500 metres.  I was looking forward to pitching the tent in the rain and eating another delightful meal of dehydrated food.  Just open the packet, pour in the boiling water, wait ten minutes, and behold a gourmet delight that would be quite at home in the best five star restaurant.  Karyn assured me that I was having fun, so I just held onto that thought.

 Actually, the Southern Alps of New Zealand are as beautiful as anywhere else in the World.  In some ways, they are even better than the West coast of Canada.  For example, there are no bears in New Zealand.  This has to be a big plus. The reality is, there is not much of anything deadly in this part of the World.  No snakes, spiders and only a couple of lizards that are harmless.  The only exception is their Rugby team.  The All Blacks have been stinging everything in their path for as long as the game has been played.

   Speaking of stinging, there are of course the sand flies.  These little blighters are absolutely deadly if you just happen to be one of the poor unfortunates who are allergic to their venom.  Pick me.  I found this out on a previous trip to the area where I ended up with so many bites that I  pleaded with Karyn to have both my legs amputated.  Ah, but not this time.  I had learn’t my lesson.  I was going to be covered from head to foot and coat any remaining exposed areas in DEET.  Now DEET is deadly, and not just to sand flies.  I weighed up the prospect of shortening my life with each application and in this case  went for the DEET.

 “But what about when you go to the toilet?”.  This was Betti speaking.  She is very smart and always thoughtful.  She’s also allergic to sandflies, so had a vested interest in the topic.  Oh bugger!

 I then quickly dismissed the possibility of a problem as I am generally not known as a lingerer on the Loo.  However the moment arrived when we stopped for lunch on day 1.  I made a dash for the dunny and was travelling quite well while still being surrounded by millions of flies and the dreaded marauding midgie.  And then came the realisation.  THERE WAS NO F…ING TOILET PAPER.  Well, that is not quite the truth.  It did exist, but was safely tucked away in the internal mechanisms of the toilet roll container.  No matter how much I scratched and prodded it failed to be retrieved.  What to do?  What to do?  Here I was, fully exposed, no DEET at the ready and the dreaded mighty NZ midgie gathering for the kill.  They were finally going to get revenge for the underarm bowling incident that has left a scar on NZ/Australian relations ever since Greg Chappell made that fateful decision.

 There was only one option.  Evacuate.  The thought of big red itchy blotches all over my rotunda was enough to throw caution to the wind and head for the cubicle next door.  I will spare you the details of the journey, but you will be pleased to know that I safely  made it.  Enough said.  Now the problem with midgie bites is that I usually have no idea whether I have been bitten until all is revealed a few days after the event.  It was time to just regain composure, soldier on and let fate take its course.

 And soldier on we did, along with what seemed to be most of the rest of the World.  The track was packed with people from all corners of the globe.  We even came across one young Japanese girl who was RUNNING the length of the track.  All over in a matter of hours.  I was as stunned as she was stunning.  I got the impression that this was actually a young persons activity.  Then again, I’m still relatively young and it might be worth a crack one day.  Beats having to carry a big heavy pack and sleep on the ground.

  We had actually tried to book a bed space in one of the huts, but ended up in our trusty two person Roy Rodgers tent.  In some ways it was much better that we were out of the mayhem of the huts and on our own.  They reminded us both of what it was like when we ran school camps.

 And so it eventually came to pass after lots of upping and downing that late on the morning of day three we emerged out of Hobbit country and back into civilization.  Still no sight of David Gold or his would be companion.  I hope she is not still out there searching, as the weather turned really nasty just after we left.  The forecast and the faces of those just commencing their journey told the whole story.

 Now, I suppose that you are all just dying to know what happened in the end.  Well my end actually.  You’ve got it in one.  Three mighty red blotches, right where the sun never shines.  Good thing that I have the little red tube handy.  Should be fully recovered before we take on the Otago Rail Trail bike ride.  I’m looking forward to it.  No big back pack and I get to sleep in a lovely bed each night.  Just bliss.

It was only just a week back that I said to Karyn that we really could do with some rain.  I had been tapping on our empty tanks in the hope that some water may have appeared out of the ether.  The plants in our lovely garden were as limp as rag dolls and the once lovely green lawn was as dry as an old boot.

The first cyclone of the season appeared in the Gulf of Carpentaria.  It was only a category one, and not expected to do much damage.  It actually just heralded the beginning of the traditional wet season in the North and was expected to pass over the cape, cross the coast line and then head harmlessly out to sea.  By the way, the “harmless out to sea” bit is for land dwellers only.  Sailors in the path of cyclones take very little comfort when the weather bureau use these terms.  If you think that being in the path of a cyclone on land is bad, just try it sometime on the water.

All cyclones are given names, and this one was called Oswald.  Phillip Adams is one of my favourite journalists and his ‘late Night Live’ program on Radio National is a standout.  He also writes for “The Australian” newspaper, and in an article on Naming Rights on February 19, 2011, he states the following:

Though the practice of naming our cyclones has only been “official” for 48 years, it’s been done since the late 19th century – thanks to a Queensland meteorologist who began with classical names then got into a spot of bother for naming them after politicians. I’d like to see this tradition renewed. By calling a cyclone Julia or Tony, you could guarantee it would run out of puff.) –

Given that Julia has just announced what will be the longest election campaign in history, I can only live in hope.  By the way, we used to only name cyclones after females, but in the age of equity we now take turns.  Isn’t that nice!

So, Oswald was supposed to pass “harmlessly” out to sea.  It didn’t.  It decided to head down the coast, and while it was no longer technically a cyclone, no one could predict the destruction that would follow.  Houses were not blown away by the wind, they were just washed away by the water.  Bundaberg was the worst and over 1000 people were plucked from their roof tops by helicopter as the Burnett River took a diversion through the Northern part of the community.  I watched in disbelief as the river just swept up everything in its path.

Communities both large and small toppled like dominos and Brisbane was in the firing line.  But how could this be?  We have only just recovered from the last one two years ago and this is only supposed to happen every forty years, or maybe even one hundred years.  It’s not fair.

The Premier, ‘Can Do’ Campbell Newman tried to emulate his predecessor, Anna Bligh who was sensational during the last flood crisis.  He appeared in front of the cameras with regular monotony and tried to assure the Queensland population that he was in charge of the government and was here to help.  But like a true small government conservative, most of the emphasis was on encouraging the public to dig deep into their pockets to donate to the flood appeal and then get out there and lend a hand.

Last time, in January 2011, we had very little warning of the degree of possible destruction and I made an early decision to pack up everything on the lower part of our humble abode and move it to the second level.  The house had apparently been flooded in 1974, and it wasn’t supposed to happen again.  The newly constructed Wivanhoe Dam would do the trick.  Wrong.  We had 1.7 metres of the Brisbane River divert through our property.  It was not a great time.

This time, we had the early warning technology via the local council website which gave the estimated flood level in every residence in possible danger.  Amazing stuff.  The prediction was that we would be clear by 1.9 metres from the lowest point in our property.  We would be safe.  But, could we trust the technology?  Karyn and I made the decision that we would not move anything and hope that the technology was correct.  Our neighbors on both sides did not agree.  One even went to the trouble of removing all of their furniture and some of their fixtures and loaded the lot onto a truck.  I even heard of one owner close by who ripped out his whole kitchen and doors.

In the end, it did not happen. Most of Brisbane was spared.  The popular term is that we had all dodged a bullet.  But the emotional damage was done.  You could see it on the faces of all who had been in the firing line.  Paul Pissale is the mayor of Ipswich, just south west of Brisbane.  I have known him for over thirty years.  He is the most positive, exuberant person I have ever met and he loves his Ipswich and all who live there.  That is why he is the most popular mayor in Australia and wins in a landslide every election.  This time, he nearly lost it.  You could see the tears in his eyes and the croak in his voice as the exhaustion took its toll.  Thankfully, Ipswich largely dodged a bullet as well.

But there were those who were not so fortunate.  Oswald continued on its path of destruction all the way down the coast of New South Wales.  For many it became just a repeat of an annual event and I have to wonder how they have the tenacity to get up every time they get knocked down.  I thought for a moment that there may be some good come out of Oswald and that it would continue far enough to put out all the bush fires in Victoria.  No such luck.  Oswald headed out to sea as it crossed over the border.

Now, there are those who abide on the high ground and “tut tut” at the unfortunates who live on a flood plain.  They pontificate about the stupidity of it all and include the local authority who gave planning approval in the first place.  The first houses in our area were built in the 1950’s and the last flood to venture in these parts had been in 1895.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Since 1895, we’ve had a major flood in 1974 and then 2011 and now 2013.  Something is happening to the weather.  The climate change deniers think it is a left wing plot and many of the conservative politicians agree.  This suits big oil and big mining and fund the negative campaign through people such as the Koch brothers in the US who are prepared to spend millions in order to protect their billions.

Many of the unfortunates have no choice.  No-one would buy their property and they are stuck.  They are the poor ones and can’t afford the insurance. Others choose to live by the water and love it.  They say that their quality of life far outweighs the short time that they actually have to live in the water.  They are the wealthy ones and are insured to the hilt.

The blame game has already started.  After the pasting they received following the last flood, the Insurance companies are fighting back.  Their representative body is blaming local government for not doing enough flood mitigation.  Others blame the State Government and the flood engineers for letting too much water out of the dams.  Or is it not enough water?  I get confused.  No one has blamed Julia yet, but I am sure that it won’t be long.

By chance, my good friend Dr Don Ardell, just sent me a quote by Louis Pasteur.  Apparently it was Pasteur who made the famous observation that “chance favors the prepared mind.”  And of course, this is what all this talk of Oswald comes down to – chance and the randomness of nature.  Those who are prepared fare better than those who are not.  But what does “prepared” mean, when it comes to a cyclone and a flood?  A few sand bags?  Shift all the furniture? Lift the house up on stilts? Or go and live somewhere else?

Speaking of going, will Karyn and I go or stay?  That has yet to be decided.  Though I know one thing for sure – the emotional strain on everyone has just gone up a notch.  I think that we now understand a little bit as to what it must be like to live in Christchurch, New Zealand.  When will the next one come?

And spare a thought for those who live in Rockhampton, Central Queensland.  Oswald passed through there a week ago and the Fitzroy River is still rising.  They have yet to see the worst.

Oh and by the way, just in case you were wondering, the water tanks are full, the grass is green and the garden revived.  I suppose Oswald did contribute something positive after all!

It’s very wet and has been for days.  Ex tropical Cyclone Oswald, that started life in the Gulf of Carpentaria, is now meandering its way down the coastline creating havoc in its path.  The dry summer filled with the terror of bush fires has quickly been transformed into flood.  The constant rain brings back the reminder of the 2011 January flood that inundated our house and many others on the flood plain on which much of Brisbane is built.  The Premier says that the dams will hold.  I hope he is right.

But then, this is Australia and this is the way things are.  It also happens to be Australia Day and the proposed bike ride with friends to the hills around Brookfield has been canned.  I’m a bit like a caged lion (well maybe just an old moggy) and have to be content with a possible run in the wet and time spent watching the professionals on TV doing their thing in the Tour Down Under.  It’s hot and dry in South Australia and much of what is in between is either on fire or flooded.

One plus about a wet Australia Day is that it has quite possibly dampened the spirits of the “yobbos”.  Kathleen Noonan is a wonderful journalist and her article in The Courier on this special day is entitled “Be a Proud Aussie Quietly”.  Amongst other things of excellent quality and sense she says and I quote:

“I’m not big on Australia Day.  It used to be a day when people quietly marked their good luck of living here, but now it seems to be about aggressively draping ourselves in flags and drinking excessively to prove our nationalism.

I think most Australians are uncomfortable with that.  We like our pride to be quiet.  We like our louts to be larrikins not dickheads”.

I read this bit to a friend who just called in for a coffee.  She said that while standing out in the street this morning chatting with friends, a car passed and the young female occupant leaned out waving a flag and shouted –

“Happy f…ing Australia Day you c..ts”.

It seems that it was still not wet enough to dampen the spirits of some.

And what is it about this flag waving stuff?  And then there is the flag itself?  It seems that while some are intent on shoving it in your face, an increasing number would like it to be changed.  The problem bit seems to be the section in the top left hand corner.  The Union Jack.  The British flag.  Why do we still have the British flag on our flag?  An increasing number of Aussies have no connection with Britain and want that bit removed.  At the London Olympics, there was one occasion when the podium was filled with a representative from the Britain, Australia and New Zealand.  All the flags flown contained the Union Jack.  The rest of the World must be very confused.

The Canadians sorted this out years ago.  I like the Canadians.  Their flag used to have the Union Jack, but they got rid of it.  Now their flag contains just one symbol.  The maple leaf.  It is possibly one of the most recognized flags in the World, though my US friends would disagree, and it speaks for all Canadians. The symbol of the maple leaf is universal.  We have the Southern Cross and that is all we need.

Of course, not all Australians celebrate Australia Day, even quietly.  Kathleen Noonan says that “she can understand why indigenous Australians aren’t real keen on Australia Day”.  The 26 January 1788 was the beginning of the end of a once proud nation of people who had survived quite comfortably on this harsh and changing land for thousands of years.  My mind goes back to when Karyn and I were on our boat in 2001 and we sailed into Cooktown in far North Queensland.  We arrived in time to see the reenactment of Cook’s landing in 1770.  This is the spot where he proclaimed that all of the East Coast of what is now Australia belonged to Queen Elizabeth.  The local indigenous population obviously didn’t understand and only became upset when Cook took a couple of dugongs and wouldn’t share them around.  If only they knew he was taking everything.  The battle for land rights is a constant.

Noonan also talks about that while most Australians have plenty to be thankful for, “We won the lotto of life”, she reminds her readers that it is no longer the case that we live in a “fair and egalitarian society”.  In a land that is so rich in resources, the divide between the rich and poor is deepening.  On this Australia Day she wishes we do more contemplation and share the luck around.

And so, as the day ends the moggy is let loose and the run completed.  Friends are over for dinner to plan our next adventure.  We are heading South in our vans for a few months.  Hope the fires are out and the floods gone.

On our first day out, we are going to stop at a very special spot in Northern New South Wales.  It is the site of the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838.  Twenty-Eight Aboriginal men, women and children were murdered by a group of white settlers.  They didn’t call them massacres in those days.  Gangs of stockmen went on what was simply known as “The Drive”.  This common practice continued for at least another 100 years.  Yes folks, right into the twentieth century and the Sydney Morning Herald quotes that overall “premeditated butchery of men, women, children and infants accounted for the aggregate for tens of thousands of black lives”.  Australia Day features as the anniversary of at least one such massacre at  Waterloo Creek.

While things have changed, there is still a lot to do and leaning out of car windows shouting obscenities is definitely not part of it.

As children, my brother, sister and I were always told by our mother (Norma Elizabeth Lees- nee Brennan) that our grandfather (James Valentine Brennan) was a sort of a hero.  Though, it turns out she was only passing on the story, as he died when she was two years of age.

The saga goes that he was a drover and was killed while going to the rescue of a horse that was being badly treated.  It was a wonderful tale of support for the weak against the strong and the payment of the ultimate price.  We were all proud of our grandfather.  From our point of view, that was the end of the story as nothing more was ever said by our mother, aunty, (Dorrie Brennan) or grandmother (Mary-Ellen Brennan nee South).

The life and death of our grandfather remained a mystery for years.  It was only eventually revealed as a result of a passing comment from daughter Emma who developed an interest in the family tree.  I simply Googled –  James Valentine Brennan, and he jumped out of the computer.  There he was, lost to our family for over 100 years and he was just sitting there waiting to be discovered.  Isn’t the internet amazing?

On second thoughts, given what I know now, it is quite possible that our grandfather may have been quite happy for the story of the animal protector to remain in family folklore.  The real story could have remained hidden in cyberspace forever.

On 27 August 1911, James Valentine Brennan was head drover of 1200 cattle that were travelling from Lawn Hill in far North Queensland, down into the Hunter region of New South Wales.  They were camped near Shamrock Wells, which is located about 90 Kilometres due East of Cunnamulla in South West Queensland.

Early on that fateful morning, our grandfather went out to check on the horses.  On his return, he accused one of the drovers (William Shannon) of doing something in relation to the hobbling or staking of the horses.  (A creamy mare in particular)  This bit of the story is not really clear, but it was obvious he was not a happy man.  William Shannon protested his innocence.  It is at this point, as in all potential conflict, that decisions are made to either escalate or de-escalate the situation.

The verbal exchange developed to the point where William Shannon decided to give a week’s notice as it had become obvious that our grandfather was not happy with his explanation.  Following the relative calm of breakfast, the fire was further fueled by the exchange of “offensive” names and Shannon decided to leave camp that morning.  He did however, just happen to throw in further ignition with a statement in relation to whether he would get paid at all as (according to Shannon) our grandfather had a history of shortchanging other drovers.  I have since learnt that in the early droving days of Australia, wages were always a hot issue.

I think that at this stage, our grandfather may have lost the plot.  The statement about the wages was possibly the last straw.  He threw a set of chain horse hobbles at Shannon and then said he would shoot him.  This is now starting to get very serious.  He then headed towards the dray where the rifles were stored.  Shannon ducked out of the way of the hobbles, grabbed a shovel and hit our grandfather over the head.  That was the end of James Valentine Brennan.  He was 31 years of age.

Up until this point, Brennan and Shannon had been mates. Isn’t it amazing how situations can quickly get out of hand.  On realization as to what he had done, Shannon pleaded with the other drovers to shoot him.

It just so happens that our grandfather had a brother.  Now that’s new news.  His name was Kenneth Brennan and he was also a drover and a witness to the whole event.  Kenneth Brennan stepped forward in true brotherly fashion and…….SHOOK HANDS WITH SHANNON OVER HIS DEAD BROTHER’S BODY SAYING THAT HE DID NOT BLAME HIM AND HE ALSO DID NOT REALISE THAT OUR GRANDFATHER HAD SUCH A TEMPER.  WOW!

What happened then is a bit confusing.  Some reports state that the drovers tried to revive our grandfather at the location of the incident, but he died an hour and a half after the blow with the shovel.  Another states that Kenneth Brennan hurried towards Cunnamulla (90 kilometres is a long way in a horse and dray) with his injured brother, but he died at Shamrock Wells.  This infers that the incident may not have taken place directly at Shamrock Wells itself?

However, what is known is that Sergeant McHugh of the Cunnamulla police brought the body of our grandfather back into Cunnamulla two days after the event and that the police charged William Shannon with willful murder.  The post mortem examination stated that our grandfather died of a fractured skull.  Kenneth Brennan took charge of the drove and continued on into New South Wales.  Our grandfather was buried in the Cunnamulla cemetery.

The Surpreme Court case against William Shannon commenced in Brisbane on Thursday 16 November 1911.  Much of the information on the incident contained above has been gleaned from the newspaper reports of witness statements at the trial.  On Friday 17 November, the papers reported that William Shannon was found not guilty by the jury and he was discharged.  It was not a lengthy trial.

William Shannon had been a drover since the age of fourteen.  At the time of the incident, he was in his early thirties.  Nothing more of him is known.

Our grandfather had a brother.  Kenneth Brennan may have had a family.  We possibly have close relatives that are out there somewhere.

At the time of his death, we always thought that our mother, aunty and grandmother were living in Normanton in North Queensland.  That is where the children were born.  However, the newspaper reported that they were living in Leyburn, near Toowoomba?

Recently, Karyn and I travelled to Shamrock Wells.  It was hard to find and we needed the wisdom of locals to help.  It’s in the middle of nowhere, in a region that looks as dry as an old boot.  But it does have water and lots of it.  Ah, water, the vital ingredient as a campsite for all droving teams of the day and a possible indicator that this is where the incident actually occurred.

We also called into Cunnamulla and our first stop was the local cemetery.  We found the grave site of James Valentine Brennan and took photos.

I said to my grandfather, “You had a choice – escalate or de-escalate and you made the wrong decision.  My mother went without a father for her whole life and they did it tough.  I went without a grandfather and I always thought you were a hero”.

He said – “You had to be there at the time”.

Now of course, I made that last bit up.  But, he is possibly right.  Who am I to pontificate about what he should have done in those circumstances.  It was a different time and a different place.  These were tough men and life was cheap.

Then again, maybe nothing much has changed.  Our news is full of stories of alcohol fueled violence that climaxes in death via a fractured skull on the concrete path outside the pub.

All life must end.  But when it ends for those who are still so young, with so much to offer, it’s such a waste.

 Rod Lees